Previous Section, Section VII
Chapter Fifty-Four
"And so, our dear aunt tossed in one final, crushing blow," Colonel Fitzwilliam observed as Darcy refilled his wine glass for the third time.
It had been three days since Anne de Bourgh's arrival, and only now was Darcy able to refer aloud to those infamous letters with little evidence of uncontrolled emotionalism. His narrative of their contents, therefore, was shared in so forthright a manner that the Colonel did not feel the need to question him too deeply.
"At least it is over," was Darcy's guarded response. "I shall not miss her correspondence, and can only hope she has not left something more to be delivered on some gloomy and unsuspecting afternoon in future."
"It is true that she has proved herself to be far more surprising in death than she had ever been in life," the Colonel agreed, smiling sympathetically.
With a shrug, Darcy returned, "Well, she certainly surprised you, I must say. Have you decided what you will do, now that you are a man of no small means?"
"I suppose I should return to town and inspect each of the properties themselves," was his answer as he swirled the contents of his glass speculatively. "There are several with which I am unfamiliar. Although being who she was, I should well imagine them to be in a condition without fault nor flaw. Her pride alone would allow nothing less..." Saying this, his voice trailed off as though suddenly losing interest in the current subject.
After a moment of silence, Darcy urged him, "So you will be leaving soon?"
"Undoubtedly I must," he replied vaguely. Again he fell silent until without warning he asked, "Darcy, have you ever had the feeling that something beyond you is controlling your actions ... your decisions? That whatever you do, or even intend to do, is already set?"
"Such as ... fate? I would not have considered you a fatalist, Fitzwilliam," Darcy remarked; "You were always a man to determine your own future, as I recall."
"Was I?" he questioned doubtfully; "Somehow I do not believe I was. Grandfather chose my schools, Father, my place in the military. I cannot honestly recall when I last decided something for myself."
"Perhaps the very act of allowing others to do as much, was your way of taking control of the situation. You did not suffer through their authority, did you? No regretting the road taken?"
"I ... the thing is, with this unexpected reversal of fortune, I am feeling obligations I had not before."
"Obligations of a professional, or personal nature?"
Despite the innocent intent of the question, Colonel Fitzwilliam glanced at his cousin sharply. "Why would you suppose it to be personal, Darcy? Do I appear unhappy to you? Unfulfilled in some way?"
Darcy looked surprised; then, his voice even, he answered; "I will not, for your sake, remind you of your original design for coming here, nor of the state you were in at the time. And, insofar as if you are presently unhappy, only you can determine that."
"Sorry," apologised the colonel, visibly mortified; "Forgive me. I suppose the point I am trying to make is that I possess every intention of leaving. I even wish to do so as soon as possible, yet something is holding me here. I cannot explain it, but for some purpose quite beyond my understanding, I am bound to remain. I cannot even say how long, or for what event, exactly, I am waiting."
"An event?" Darcy scrutinised him; "Of what disposition, I wonder. Is it a sense of...foreboding or anticipation?"
"Great God, I wish I knew," groaned the Colonel hopelessly, "It is the unknown that truly disturbs me. I have not slept these past nights for more than an hour at a time."
"Yet, you should feel as secure as you ever have. Is this not what you have always desired? The independence to do as you please?"
"Yes, I should ... but somehow my independence seems not so important any longer. I now see it as something else altogether. Something not so inviting, I am afraid."
Without speaking, Darcy waited. Three minutes passed, then five.
Finally the Colonel confessed, "Darcy, I must admit that I am suddenly dreading the idea of being alone. I, who have happily embraced my freedom for so long as I can remember. Perhaps it is the unexpected demise of our Aunt de Bourgh which terrifies me. She died with her pride and principles well intact and see what it got her. In the end, few (if any) true friends, a daughter who both humoured and feared her, and only the shallow reward of material possessions as her final comfort. Is this what I have to look forward to? Why, I cannot even claim the act of fathering a child as some sort of genuine accomplishment." Rising to his feet, he began to pace restlessly, still speaking his thoughts aloud; "Is this all I am to be, then? No home nor family. An untethered ship tossing uselessly in the ocean. Nothing of consequence for which to be remembered. It is not as I pictured my existence, surely."
"You are hardly in the waning years of your life, Fitzwilliam," Darcy reminded him; "There is time for all you may yet wish to accomplish."
"Is there?" For a moment his face brightened, then, with renewed gloom; "But, how can you possibly understand? You have three fine, healthy children, a solid income, a wife of sense and beauty. No, you cannot comprehend my anxiety."
"This is nonsense," Darcy suddenly declared, rising as well. "If you wish to purchase a house, then do so. You have the means now. And if you desire a wife and family, then for God's sake, take care of it. Or is this your method of preparing me for your engagement to Miss Covington? If so, you might as well end this charade now, for even if I accepted with enthusiasm such a decision, I can speak for no one else of our acquaintance. A fact, I daresay, of which you are very much aware."
"No," the Colonel denied, his brow furrowed, "I am not referring to Miss Covington. At least, I do not perceive that I am. You may not believe me, Darcy, but I do not miss her ... I do not yearn for her as I thought I should ... I feel, instead, as though I am in a maze and cannot find my way out. I no sooner begin to think I understand what true happiness is, then some obstruction appears in my way to confuse and confound me."
"True happiness," repeated Darcy thoughtfully, "A different objective for every man in the end. And so, Miss Covington is no longer your hearts desire? What then, shall it be? Will you travel? Perhaps the Americas or Indies. You used to speak of both as a desirable destination."
"Yes, I suppose I did. Neither appeals to me now." He shook his head slightly as he continued, "I wish to settle, Darcy. I cannot say where or with whom, but I am weary of my nomad's life. All of those places which called to me in the past have finally ceased their perpetual applications." With a show of studying his boots he added, "I have, however, decided on one thing for certain."
"What is that?" Darcy asked, although he suspected that he already knew.
"I shall retire from the militia. Twelve years is long enough for any man, and I am quite ready to attempt something different. Perhaps being a landlord and gentleman of leisure shall begin to satisfy me."
"Perhaps," agreed his cousin cautiously. "Although at times there is far less leisure than you might anticipate."
"Ah yes," was Colonel Fitzwilliam's airy reply, "Bills to pay, tenants to appease, land to oversee. I look forward to it with great pleasure. I must confess I have envied you on more than one occasion."
"Oh?"
"For besides all of these, you married well, Darcy. Admit it. You are so ideally suited to your wife that I find myself quite covetous for such contentment. Somehow it hardly seems fair. You, who have always enjoyed the wealth and connections of your family, and then to meet and wed a woman who understands your little idiosyncrasies so perfectly ... Well, I find the whole business rather infuriating, really."
"You will recall," Darcy interrupted calmly, "that she was not considered ideal by many of our acquaintances, and still, I suppose, is not to this very day."
"Yes, but that is nonsense, is it not? She has given you your comeuppance when you sorely needed it, and yet supported you throughout your marriage. At the same time, she is a person in her own right. Not just a shadow to her husband as so many wives tend to be. No, Darcy, you may consider yourself most fortunate in that regard."
"Do not concern yourself, Fitzwilliam. I assure you that I do most frequently." Darcy strolled to the window, smiling to himself as he answered.
An action not to be lost on his cousin: "And you need not look so damnably smug, you know," he snorted. "You have only made it all the more difficult for those of us still searching."
"If you are searching, as you say, for a woman like Mrs. Darcy, you may as well give it up. I do not suppose such a companion would suit you in the least," Darcy returned, the smile still lingering stubbornly around his mouth.
"Do you think I am not aware of that? She may be your wife, my dear cousin, but she is far from flawless."
Raising his eyebrows doubtfully, Darcy inquired, "And you are seeking flawlessness? Good luck, my friend. You will surely need it."
"No," the Colonel disagreed, suddenly serious once more; "Not flawlessness...merely a woman to understand and sympathise. One who might forgive my own faults and sustain, in spite of the circumstances, whatever regard for me she may have begun with." While he spoke, he moved to fill their glasses; Whereupon returning to his chair, he manoeuvred himself until thoroughly ensconced within its comfortingly thick cushions.
"And, what will you do to earn such devotion?" The question, despite its being asked by Darcy, seemed to catch both men off guard.
For answer, Colonel Fitzwilliam studied the other curiously. At length he suggested, "It is not a given, then? You are saying I should not come to expect as much from whomever the lady might happen to be?"
"If you expect as much, you will, very likely, be disappointed," Darcy replied with some reluctance, "Not necessarily because the lady might be imperfect, but because you, I mean we, are."
"We, meaning men in general, or you and I specifically? Are you implying that we are truly so terrible to deal with? So...," he frowned as he puzzled over his cousin's words, "we are the heartless villains, while the gentler sex mere innocents in this insane diversion we call life?"
"You misunderstand me, Fitzwilliam," Darcy argued mildly, "I am saying it is a business of mutual expectations. If you require your wife to sympathise ... to overlook your faults, than you must do the same for her."
"Dear me, Darcy," the Colonel remarked, "When did you become a gentleman of such modern and liberal views? I would not have expected it of you."
Despite appearing to be slightly embarrassed, Darcy persisted, "If you value your marriage, and retaining the affection of your wife, you will adopt such views as well. Believe me, I speak through painful experience."
"I do not doubt you."
"I am not suggesting the impossible, you know," Darcy continued doggedly, "Have you no female acquaintance who has displayed the unselfish qualities you seek, and with which you might desire a union?"
"Whom I could love, do you mean?" With a rueful smile, Colonel Fitzwilliam shook his head, "I have loved well and often, ... but a lasting love? A regard deep and fine enough to endure a lifetime? That I have not found."
"Such a love does not suddenly appear, you know. Perhaps it begins with friendship. Perhaps respect." Although spoken aloud, Darcy's voice was low enough so that the words might have been intended only for himself.
Colonel Fitzwilliam, watching his friend's profile at the window of the darkening room, felt the urgent need above all things, for complete solitude. Something in Darcy's tone, in his speech, stirred some memory which required further and immediate investigation.
With a murmured "If you will pardon me, Darcy, " he arose abruptly, and after nearly dropping his emptied glass in his haste to set it onto a table, hurried out.
Chapter Fifty-Five
Georgiana Darcy Berrick, having taken her wedding vows with the most sincere intent to obey them unequivocally, generally conceded to her husband's wishes. That is, she would not have dreamt of arguing aloud when they disagreed, despite how much she might silently do so when deliberating the matter at a later time.
She remained quiet when he had suggested their all travelling, uninvited, to Pembridge, or when he and Mr. Nelson had discussed their strategy to acquire her brother as a potential client.
She had said nothing when he appeared to openly enjoy the antics of Lydia Wickham, although she found that lady's conduct quite reprehensible and not at all appropriate for a gentleman (or his wife) to attend to when still so newly married.
On the other hand, he did make every effort to be pleasing towards herself, and managed to dispense of whatever bad habits he might have acquired as a bachelor. He praised her talents as he always had, treated her with a sweet deference when she expressed her ideas, and did not take for granted her company, no matter how much time they spent together.
Most probably, she decided, it was her own fault for spoiling him. A husband would only come to expect what had previously been yielded; so, if it were not expected for her to speak out when she felt he was not quite correct, she had no one but herself to blame.
Thus, such admonitions, as she sat in the drawing room one rainy afternoon, were directed solely toward her own person.
Everyone else was apparently occupied in other parts of the house, and her half-hearted attempts at beginning a new needlepoint refused to hold her interest. Finally, as the little fire in the grate ebbed into softly glowing coals, she laid it aside and set her mind to the very problem she had been purposely refusing to acknowledge all day.
At an early hour, before much of the household was even stirring, Michael had risen from their bed to announce that Mr. Nelson wished him to return alone to town on some mysterious matter of business. She was to remain here until his return in two or three days. He would tell her nothing more about it, and when she opened her mouth to question him, he laughed and kissed the words from her lips before they could be uttered.
"Have no fear, my dear little wife," he promised her lightly, "I do not intend to linger any longer than what is absolutely necessary."
And that, it seemed, had been that.
Elizabeth would never have been so...meek, so simple-minded, so ineffectual, she scolded herself. She would have inquired as to whom he must see, and, for what purpose, or, why was he to be away for so long?
But, because she was Georgiana, no explanation was offered nor demanded. He had assumed she would have nothing to say, and so he had been right. Now, she could only sit in lonely contemplation to worry and wonder.
On the whole, being in this new and constantly surprising state of wedlock had agreed with her. Michael saw to this much as diligently as even the most menial tasks daily allotted him by the demanding Mr. Nelson.
Oftentimes, unexpectedly and unbidden, he might present her with a bouquet of flowers or invite her out to a recital given by some personage whom she had long admired.
In the bedroom, he had proven himself to be as considerate and sensitive as Elizabeth had so long ago predicted. His ministrations brought forth a passion the naive Georgiana could not have foreseen, and, in the first days of their marriage, was a source of almost devastating mortification...almost.
Yet, he had laughed at her embarrassment, apparently delighted with such spontaneous fervour, and furthermore encouraged because of it. As the weeks passed, she became more emboldened during their lovemaking; however, she still could not bring herself to initiate it outright.
Such reflections brought a redness to her cheeks which caused her to be thankful for her present isolation, and she attempted to return her thoughts to their original complaint as soon as possible.
The actual problem, she realised suddenly, was that when he was from her side, she fell into a sort of ennui ... a dullness which would remain until his return. This in itself was unexpected as she had passed the better part of her life under the obligation to entertain herself.
She had always relied upon her music for companionship, and, to a point, she did so still. But now it was simply not enough. All the while she played, she thought of him. Even when teaching Bernadette, her attention was shockingly not with her pupil. And the little skills she had learnt over the years: the needlepoint, screen-painting and embroidery left her feeling only restless and desolate as well.
"Does every bride suffer under such anxiety ... such wanton desire?" she pondered, the few smouldering coals before her holding her forlorn gaze.
"Georgiana?"
She started at the interruption, but quickly composed herself and arose at the sight of Mrs. Paquin standing just within the door.
"Pray, forgive me for disturbing you," that lady continued, not noticing Georgiana's distraction, "But I must speak, and feel I cannot postpone what I have to say a moment longer."
"Oh?" Georgiana finally managed, "Please, come, sit down."
Instead of complying, Mrs. Paquin moved to the mantle and began to nervously rearrange the various objects upon it. At length she murmured, "I cannot stay here. To remain is only folly." Without warning, she turned to Georgiana and announced, "I regret to inform you that Bernadette and I must return to town at once."
Taken aback by, not only the declaration itself, but also the manner with which it was given, Georgiana found herself to be quite speechless. Mrs. Paquin, nonetheless, continued with no apparent need for a response from her audience.
"We find our company is required elsewhere," she explained hurriedly. "It is not that I do not appreciate your inviting us, nor Mrs. Darcy's hospitality. But we cannot delay...I must beg your understanding."
"I do understand," Georgiana replied as the other at last fell silent, "I think. But, I am sorry. You see, my husband left for town this morning in Mr. Nelson's coach and is not expected back for perhaps three days. I am certain my brother might provide a conveyance if you cannot wait."
Mrs. Paquin's expression fell at her sister-in-law's words; then, "No, I would not presume to ask Mr. Darcy for such a favour." Sinking into the chair opposite, she whispered resignedly, "Three days I can surely bear."
"What is it?" Georgiana entreated in the face of such undisguised despondency, "Are you ill? Or is Bernadette ailing in some way? Please, Mrs. Paquin ... Lorraine, can you not ease your burden by sharing it with me?"
"It is no use," her eyes met Georgiana's hopelessly, "I am drowning in regret and not even you, dear Georgiana, can rescue me from myself."
"Regret for what? Surely you have done nothing to earn such harsh recriminations." Georgiana reached out and took Mrs. Paquin's hand into her own sympathetically. It was very cold.
"I ... have made a fool of myself to the one person whose good opinion I value. Now, I cannot meet his eyes, nor even speak to him directly for fear of the contempt I know shall be present." With this reluctant confession, she gazed fixedly on the pile of blackened coals.
"Who?" Georgiana begged, "Of whom are you speaking? For I cannot imagine anyone holding you in contempt. Please, Lorraine dear, can you not say?"
Mrs. Paquin shook her head as a tear made its way down her cheek; "To even think his name, much less speak it aloud fills me with such shame! My conduct while in his company could not have failed to expose my feelings, and now you are only being kind in pretending you are not aware of it. Oh, how could I have destroyed such a precious friendship so callously? How could I have said such things to him?"
Of course she is speaking of Colonel Fitzwilliam, Georgiana comprehended as she studied the other's distressed countenance. It was no secret between the Berricks that Lorraine felt thus and had for some time.
However, it had also been assumed that those feelings were reciprocated; at least until Miss Covington had entered his life. But why now should she condemn her own actions? What had she said or done to warrant such self-loathing?
"Lorraine," she spoke gently, "I am certain you are wrong. Colonel Fitzwilliam could not despise you. His concern these past evenings when you did not appear at dinner proves how mistaken you are."
Other than a slight wince at the mention of his name, Mrs. Paquin remained quite still for several moments. Then, tentatively, she asked, "He was ... concerned?"
"Most definitely," Georgiana insisted, encouraged by the brightening of her companion's expression; "He asked after you, and upon hearing that you would not be down, showed little appetite himself. I think you are far too hard upon yourself."
"No," she argued painfully, "He pities me. That is all. I have become an object of charity to him. How I wish I could undo those words I spoke so heedlessly. How could I have admitted ... ? It is simply too much." With this she buried her face in her hands and began to weep in earnest, her sorrow causing Georgiana no little alarm.
"Oh dear," she fretted to herself, "Where is Elizabeth when she is needed? I have no idea what to say to ease her pain. I feel so very awkward in situations such as these." At the same time, the thought occurred to her that perhaps to be silent might be for the best, for at length Mrs. Paquin's tears began to subside and her eyes to become thoughtful.
After several moments, she looked up at Georgiana and spoke in so rational a manner that her previous state might have been only imagined. "Forgive me, dear Georgiana. I did not intend to fall apart so." With a handkerchief she daubed once more at the corners of her eyes and smiled stiffly, "I shall deal with this as I must. You said that Michael should return in three days. Then, I will manage for three days as well."
"Lorraine," Georgiana apologised, still feeling helpless, "I am so sorry I could not be of more use. I wish there were something..."
"No," interrupted the other as she stood. Reaching out, she took one of Georgiana's hands into her own. "You have helped me immensely by simply listening. I know that this trial will pass over time, as they all must. Believe me, I shall survive." She smiled again until Georgiana returned it with an uncertain one of her own. Then, she turned and strode from the room, her demeanour set with new determination.
When Mrs. Paquin appeared at dinner for the first time that night in nearly a week, she was greeted with pleased surprise by the majority of the company. Georgiana insisted she sit by her and squeezed her hand beneath the table reassuringly.
After a glance of acknowledgement, Mr. Nelson lifted his glass in a silent toast, while the Baroness whispered on her other side, "Welcome back, my dear. You have been sorely missed."
Mr. Darcy, as well, who did not normally react in any outward fashion to events around him, smiled at her in as warm a manner as she might have wished.
In fact, if one were to gaze upon this scene as an outsider, they might note that the only person appearing to be indifferent was Colonel Fitzwilliam (for even Lydia raised her eyebrows at the return of the long-absent Mrs. Paquin). And, despite his face and ears taking on a pinkish hue, he said little during the entire meal; concentrating on his food as though afraid it might vanish if his attention were to be, even momentarily, diverted.
Chapter Fifty-Six
That evening, as Elizabeth aided Georgiana by turning the pages of music for her while she played, she became aware that Mr. Nelson and Lydia were involved in a low-voiced discussion behind her. She did not intend to listen. In fact, she took great pains to concentrate only on the notes resounding from the piano-forte. Yet, even between pieces, they seemed to ignore the fact that their voices were no longer entirely concealed, and continued on heedlessly.
By the time the entire party retired to their rooms, Mrs. Darcy could feel her cheeks burning with too-long-suppressed vexation. No sooner had the door to their bedchamber been resolutely closed, then she turned on her husband in cold fury.
"Fitzwilliam, why have you not mentioned that you are taking on the expense of Wickham's divorce from Lydia? I think I might yet claim some right to be informed. After all, she is my sister, who, although foolish and impulsive, hardly requires assistance in the ruination of my family. I should hate to read of such a scandal in the London papers without any sort of enlightenment on the matter!"
He greeted this attack with admirable calm. "I had assumed, erroneously I see now, that Lydia, herself, might confide in you. Really, Elizabeth, I cannot see it as my place to have done so."
"And, Mr. Berrick is in town as we speak, arranging the whole business," she continued as though he had not spoken. "Is Georgiana aware as well, or am I not the only one to be kept in blissful ignorance?"
"I could not know if Berrick said anything to his wife. If he did, she has not come to me about it." As he answered, his expression hardened beneath her onslaught.
"Was this your idea, then?" she was pacing now, her eyes following the pattern of violet hued hyacinths embroidered into the rug. "For I am doubtful of Lydia approaching you. She may be bold and tactless but she has never shown such wanton audacity. Did you hope this would relieve you of Wickham at last? I cannot believe you, of all people, to be such an opportunist!"
"If there were an actual chance that Wickham might conveniently disappear by such a step," he replied icily, "then I might have considered it myself; but, no, I cannot take the credit, nor, I should remind you, the blame. I merely offered my services to aid your sister out of what I deemed, to be a hopeless situation."
"And I am supposed to thank you? The great Mr. Darcy uses his wealth once again to save the downtrodden! You financed the making of the marriage, you may as well do the same for the divorce? As far as that goes, how is Mr. Berrick to go about completing this assignment? bribery? extortion? I am positive Wickham will not be amenable to losing you as his favourite means of income."
"It signifies little what method he uses, although Berrick has imagination enough to complete the task despite Wickham's greed. The fact of the matter is, my dear Elizabeth, I doubt Wickham will actually be swayed in the end. You said it yourself. I have always been far too accommodating."
"So, in spite of the opinion," she cried, "that you hold little faith in his success, you advocate such a reckless venture? I must wonder why you would risk scandal and infamy for something that promises so few personal rewards."
"And I must wonder why," he asked in a tone so patronising as to be certain to aggravate her further, "you are reacting so strongly? This outcome should not have been unforeseen."
"Not unforeseen perhaps, yet definitely not welcomed. What will my parents do when they hear of it? Oh, my poor father..." she stopped pacing as the thought occurred to her; "He cannot help but be mortified by such news."
"Your father is not a insensible man. He will rise above it as he always has."
"Meaning, I am sure, that his family have embarrassed him so often he cannot help but remain unaffected?"
For answer, he only shrugged; an obvious and futile attempt to detach himself from the perturbation increasing between the two of them.
Resuming her pacing, she began to mutter, "It is, I suppose, fortunate Lady Catherine is deceased, for she would enjoy this beyond all human endurance ... And how in the world am I to rationalise such a dishonour to our friends? Oh, Fitzwilliam," she sighed, sinking onto a settee in despair, "what have you done?"
"Elizabeth," he interrupted from where he had retreated before the window; "You are making more of this than it warrants. If Lydia and Wickham divorce, how can it reflect poorly on you? Our friends know you to be a sensible woman. You should not suffer ill-treatment by your sister's actions."
"It is not merely myself," she insisted, "But Jane and Father, my aunt and uncle Gardiner and every relation I care about. Even our children may be ostracised because of this. Why can you not see it?"
"I cannot see what is not there," was his contention, his eyes pensively studying the stars outside. With a sigh, he capitulated somewhat; "So, ... what would have me do, Elizabeth? I perceived nothing to be gained by forcing them to remain married, and I can hardly reverse my position at this point."
"No..." she remonstrated; "I only wish you might have spoken to me first." With these words, an invisible yet decidedly solid barricade seemed to rise between them.
In truth, she did not fully understand her own outrage. Was she suffering from hurt pride because he had failed to inform her of his part in the proceedings himself? or was it a case of self-recrimination for having to learn of it through common eavesdropping?... a practice she absolutely abhorred. She had to admit that the circumstance of divorce, although unfortunate, was not nearly so unheard of as when she was a child. Still, to be so closely connected to a woman of that status would do their household no earthly good, and could possible cause some eventual mischief.
This notion rather surprised her. "When did I," she brooded in silence, "Become concerned with the opinions of others? I, who have always prided myself on my own common sense ... Perhaps he is right. Perhaps I am overreacting."
Aware of a sudden that he had begun to speak, she disentangled herself from the paradox of her own conflicting sensibilities.
"Madam," he was saying with a formality she recognised in an instant; "In case you might have forgotten, I am still the head of this household, and I will not have my wife openly dispute my decisions. If you happen to disagree, that is, of course your prerogative. But I warn you, it will not go beyond this room."
As her eyes met his, she stiffened. Then raising an eyebrow, she replied coolly, "Yes, of course. Do not concern yourself, Fitzwilliam, I shall do nothing to shame you."
Without another word, he left her. Staring at the thick and impenetrable door now separating them, she very nearly followed to beg his immediate pardon. But, the longer she reflected on the matter, the less the idea appealed to her.
"No," she decided at last; "This time he is the one who is in the wrong. He should have consulted, or at the very least, informed me of his intent. He knew of my feelings, yet he ignored them, and now..."
Suddenly detecting a slight noise beyond the door, she stood, and with her hand on the arm of the chaise as support, waited with bated breath. After several expectant but frustrating moments however, she felt this hope dissipate, and with a discouragement she could not disown, wearily rang for Clara.
On the other side of the aforementioned door, Mr. Darcy fumed silently. The fact that his motive in the entire business had been so wrongly misinterpreted gnawed at the very heart of him. Had he not considered Elizabeth's viewpoint from the moment of his being approached by Mr. Nelson? Why, all along he had rationalised his actions with the supposition that she would be pleased. Well, ... perhaps pleased was too strong of a word in this case. What then? gratified? grateful? Obviously, she was anything but that.
Closing his eyes, he imagined her face while she was speaking in such caustic and insulting fashion. Why was she so determined to censure him, when his only thought, his only desire, was to please her? He had presumed with Wickham gone from their lives once and for all, and Lydia free at last, that Elizabeth might suspend worrying so grievously for her sister. It hurt him to see her so. Why did she not understand? He desired only her happiness, yet she, apparently, did not see it in such a way.
The room in which he now stood was not a bedchamber, but a small apartment where his mother had spent her time writing countless letters. The furnishings, although tasteful and somewhat delicate, were therefore inadequate for a gentleman in his present state of mind to remain near for very long.
With a snort of disgust, he strode through the only other door available to him and made his way to the first floor library. The house was in darkness save for the occasional candle still burning in a wall sconce between rooms. The library did not boast of one of these, but as he entered he hardly noticed, for the whole of it was illuminated by the glow of moonlight spilling through the French doors.
Pouring himself a drink from the brandy decanter set upon a small table in one corner, he drank it quickly; his throat both contracting and welcoming to the liquid fire it delivered. This was followed by another that, despite the turmoil of his thoughts, he forced himself to savour in a far more deliberate manner. As the final drop was consumed, an inexplicable calm stole over him.
"Let her brood if she is determined to do so," he decided then, his expression one of grim resolve. "She will soon come to her senses." With a feeling very near to triumph, he unbolted one of the French doors and watched in idle fascination as it slowly swung open to allow the softest of summer breezes into the room.
The scent of roses permeating the air caused him to become sleepy, and so without conscious design, he claimed a chair that promised an unhindered view of both the lawn and the sea beyond.
Into his mind arose visions of another moonlit night. The distant sound of the waves lapping onto the shore added a strange reality to the content of this dream. For somehow, in the recollecting, he felt her to be in his arms once more; her lips sweet against his own, her skin appearing ghostly white in the glow of the moon. At the time she had reminded him of the fairy beings in stories from his youth. Those illustrations, which had so fascinated him, depicting ethereal figures with bright eyes shining from some inner and otherworldly knowledge.
She had been agreeable his object then. He had supposed she would not. The chance of discovery was so constant that her surrender still struck him as a wonderful gift. She had generously given his fantasy a life of its own, and he would be forever grateful for that. Yet tonight she had seemed very different. How could she, in fact, be the same Elizabeth?
"Was it truly only a dream?" he puzzled as his eyes fought to remain open. After the startling dissension of this evening, such precious memories had suddenly become as unreal as those removed ones of his childhood.
If he had been more alert, he might have noticed the single horseman who lingered motionlessly at the edge of the wood. If his mind had not been so engrossed with his own current predicament, he might even have recognised the rider. But he did not, and as his eyes closed from the combined effect of drink and fatigue, he slipped into a slumber of welcome insensibility.
Chapter Fifty-Seven
Despite the discord around them, Dr Brecht and Anne de Bourgh were finding themselves well on their way to a condition of a more agreeable disposition.
In the physician, Anne discovered a mind of similar impressions. His admiration of nature and its benefits exactly suited her own; a fact that while her mother was living, she dared not voice. At the same time, his temper, although basically serious, was not alien to a humour she could share and appreciate.
For his part, he saw in her a generous sensitivity others did not. If she had been spoilt by Lady Catherine's overly attentive and protective ideals, she was rapidly growing out of it. Even in matters of his research, she displayed a keen understanding; no doubt stemming from her own personal history with men of varying, and sometimes questionable, medical knowledge.
Much of their waking hours were spent in one another's company, and in the third week of their stay at Pembridge, Dr Brecht asked Anne the question she had not dared to expect.
They had been walking, as they were wont to do each day, to the village before dinner when he paused, glanced about him distractedly and spoke, "Miss de Bourgh, stop here, please. There is something that we must discuss ... I have postponed it far too long already."
Complying immediately, her eyes met his in so trusting a manner that he was struck temporarily speechless. They were standing on a path that wound down to the rocky beach just outside of Ramsgate. A puff of wind from the sea blew a curl out from beneath her bonnet and he found himself watching its dancing movement while he attempted to sort out the words he sought. Finally; "The time is coming when I shall have no choice but to return to Germany."
If she was disappointed, she hid it well. "Yes," she answered. "I know. You must attend to your patients."
"Actually," his eyes concentrated on the waves hugging the shoreline below them. "Dr. Vervalen gets on very well without me."
"Oh yes, your associate," she recollected; "He does not mind your long absence?"
"He will eventually take over the practice entirely, as I intend to return to the classroom soon."
"Oh? You would abandon your research?" she studied him, "But it means so much to you."
Ruefully he explained, "If I do not agree to teach, the facilities and equipment will not be available to me at all. It is because of my research that I am thus compelled."
Studying the blue-grey horizon, she asked in an impassive voice, "And, when must you leave, do you think?"
"A week, perhaps two ... I will, of course, see my sister securely away from Von Wold's influence before I do so. I dare not imagine to what she may concede once I am gone."
"I so wish she might consider my invitation to accompany me to Rosings," Anne sighed; "I assure you her society would be greatly appreciated. The idea of returning alone to such a vast, empty place fills me with such dread ... Or if she prefers, we might, instead, go to London or Bath." She brightened as she suggested this, the notion sounding advantageous to even her own ears.
"I will recommend it to her," he promised with a fleeting smile. "although I believe her concern is that she should prove to be an imposition."
"What nonsense," was Anne's emphatic protest. "Tell her she shall be doing me an enormous favour. It is not a falsehood."
"Perhaps she could be persuaded if..." Here he hesitated; "But I have no right to ask it of you."
Appearing to be wrestling with some inner conflict, he turned and began to walk slowly in the direction of the estate.
Bemused, she followed him in silence. At length he stopped, wrinkled his forehead and appeared to be arguing with himself. "That is, unless..." he reasoned aloud, "but no, it would hardly be fair."
"What?" she demanded, unable to contain her curiosity any longer. "What would not be fair? What should you not ask of me?" Reaching out, she touched his arm in encouragement. "If you do not explain yourself, Dr. Brecht, I shall be forced to assume the most insane of possibilities."
Truly smiling at last, he faced her to inquire, "Such as...?"
"That you intend to fight the Baron in a duel, and although not a brutal man, you can be quite determined when the need arises. As a result of this stubborn audacity, you shall both be killed, leaving the poor Baroness a widow. Thereafter, it would fall upon me, as your most loyal friend, to see her properly and safely returned to her home in Germany."
The creases around his mouth deepened. "And, what would become of you, my most loyal little friend? Will you spend the rest of your days practising good deeds and considering all others save yourself?"
Immediately she sobered, her eyes darkening as she considered his question. "If you are gone," she answered after a moment, "there would be nothing else for me to do."
Instantly mortified by this admission, she ducked her head and, as he now obstructed her way, attempted to walk around him.
But he would not allow her to escape so easily. Stepping directly into her path, he waited until she was enough recovered to lift her eyes to his. "Miss de Bourgh," he said then, his voice gentle, "Please stay."
"I beg your pardon," she stammered, her cheeks the same colour as her crimson spencer. "It must be nearly time to return...I would not wish to keep them waiting."
"The world will not end if we are a bit late, you know," he replied as he took one of her gloved hands into his.
"Dr. Brecht," vainly attempting to retrieve her hand, she glanced around to make certain they were not seen. "I beg you. Do not..."
"Anne, will you not hear me out?"
Whether it was because of his use of her Christian name or simply the plea in his voice, she fell suddenly still.
Taking this as sanction, he persisted, "We are friends, that is true, but lately I have wished for something more, and I had hoped...dearly hoped that you felt the same."
She swallowed but said nothing.
"I am not entirely comfortable asking this of you now," he had folded her fingers around his own and was studying them as he spoke; "There is so much for you to consider. I intend to leave Germany for good once I have sold my practice. I have only just this morning received a letter from the school in Manchester. They have promised me the facilities I need to continue my work, if or when I should decide to accept their offer of a teaching position. The point is, that you would be required to wait here for me, and I cannot even say how long it might be...Now, do you understand why it would not be fair?"
As his eyes were yet focused on their entwined fingers, he did not notice her expression of dubious amusement.
"Indeed, it would not," she contended evenly, "If you had actually requested some sort of promise from me, and if I had actually agreed. So far, there is no cause for such a concern."
He had the grace to look surprised and then abashed at her words. When he spoke again, it was with uncharacteristic humility. "Now I must beg your pardon.
Apparently I am being obtuse." With little thought to the muddy ground nor to the effect of it on that section of his breeches, he knelt on one knee, held Anne's hand against his heart, and tried again; "Please, dear Miss de Bourgh, will you not make me the happiest of men by consenting to be my wife?"
Despite the incongruity of his position, she did not laugh. "Yes, Dr Brecht, I shall be most pleased to accept," she replied solemnly, "Only..."
"Yes?" he prompted, the dampness beginning to pervade the remainder of his pant leg.
"Is this to be a marriage of convenience or...?"
"You are teasing now," he declared, glad to be able to stand once more, "But if you require reassurance...?"
With that he took her into his arms and succeeded in erasing any doubt she may have harboured.
No sooner had his lips left her own, then he whispered, "I do so love you, my little Anne. I could not imagine my future without you."
Feeling notably light-headed and far too breathless to respond, she could only lay her head upon his chest, convinced that she was presently the happiest woman in all of Britain.
Chapter Fifty-Eight
The breech would not heal. The wall could not be razed. At the end of their third full day of continuing mutual animosity, Elizabeth sat at her dressing table and considered this less than satisfactory state of affairs.
She knew she was as much to blame as he (perhaps more so), yet somehow she could not bring herself to apologise first. If he had shone the slightest effort to reconcile, then surely, she would have offered no resistance.
But a mask had been put into place. He was now the Master of the Manor: unapproachable, aloof, composed, and displaying no indication whatsoever of wishing the situation altered. As a matter of fact, at present he was not even sharing her bed. She supposed, although she had not verified this, that he was occupying his father's former room in the opposite wing.
This physical distance did nothing to lessen their emotional estrangement, and was most probably the cause of its progression into something well beyond most previous altercations.
The mask was not his alone. She had donned it also, at least while in the company of her husband. In private, she agonised, worried and feared for any permanent injury being done to their marriage. She could not help but realise fully the foolishness of her own behaviour; the irrationality of her emotions.
However, as any evidence of reversal from him was not forthcoming, she, rather reluctantly by this time, maintained her own resolution as well.
To make matters worse, the "dream" had resurfaced to interrupt her already far from restful nights. Now, she recognised the place where she walked; in the woods behind Pembridge, and several people were near her ... Friends, she thought, although their faces remained in shadow. Despite their drawing closer to where the woods met the lawn of the manor, the air felt heavier, darker, and she struggled with an impression of not being able to breathe freely.
This was always the point where she awoke in a cold sweat, and would lie awake as she attempted to make sense of the strange, ominous images that remained to haunt her for several hours thereafter.
Now, seated before the looking glass, she studied herself critically. Her eyes gazed back at her with little outward change from when she was newly married less than five years earlier. Yet, there was a difference. Her complexion, which once glowed with abounding exuberance, now appeared pale and careworn.
Just after their wedding ceremony, her Aunt Gardiner had told her something which she promised to take to heart, but like much of what was recommended to her as a young bride, was soon forgotten in the stimulating days and weeks following.
"My dear Lizzy," she affectionately offered, "may I tell you something of marriage...I mean, a happy marriage?"
"Yes, of course," Elizabeth answered with the tolerance of one who supposes she already is quite knowledgeable on the subject, having been so for all of one hour.
"You will not believe me now, I know," Mrs. Gardiner continued, undaunted by her niece's airy reply; "However, someday you may choose to recollect my words." She paused, smiled, and took each of Elizabeth's hands into her own. "You are violently in love, as well you ought to be, and cannot imagine anything else. So I shall not long suspend your joy. But listen to me for just a moment. You and Mr. Darcy are not so different in temperament that you may treat your disagreements lightly. You are stubborn, as is he. This I have witnessed myself. When you argue, and believe me you shall,...every married couple in the world does so, you must be the one to take the first step towards compromise. I am speaking from experience, you know."
"You, Aunt?" Elizabeth teased; "I have, not once, seen you and my uncle at odds."
"No," was her smiling assent, "We made quite certain of that. Yet, despite more than one such unfortunate incident throughout the years, we dealt with each in as timely and considerate a manner as, at the time, we were capable of so doing. I believe that by not allowing our own sense of self-righteousness to influence our regard, we strengthened our union instead of causing it damage." Her expression becoming serious, she went on, "If you will allow me, I should most wish to share with you, my dearest niece, the lessen which I have had to learn myself over the course of my lifetime."
But, although she owned every intention of listening, Elizabeth's loving gaze was turned upon her husband, who across the room, was graciously accepting congratulations from several distant relations. Her aunt's words, therefore, were not attended to as carefully as they might have been.
Now, so many months, and admittedly, extraordinary experiences later, Elizabeth tried to recall the advice given with such great solicitude so very long ago. The tone of Mrs. Gardiner's voice rang in her head quite clearly, yet the message remained vague.
Closing her eyes, she pictured her aunt's face before her own. "Please, dear lady," she whispered, "Tell me again what I must do. I fear I have been remiss and am quite at a loss..." This last ended in a sort of sob as a sudden wave of self-pity swept over her. With a shaky sigh she lay her head upon her crossed arms, and let the tears escape from where they had been too long suppressed.
How difficult, how impossible would it be for her to go to him? to beg him accept her apology? The idea drifted through her mind several times before she finally awarded it the attention it deserved. "There is," she decided at last, "nothing else to be done. For the sake of all that we are,...that we ever will be, I must do so without further delay." Before she could talk herself out of it, she drew her dressing gown around her tightly, and went in search of him.
Making her way down the semi-darkened hallways, she was reminded of a maze. The two wings occupied by the household were all that she was truly familiar with. He had given her a complete tour of the place (employing some delightful inducements along the way) directly after their arrival, but that was nearly two months ago, and she had not ventured forth alone since that time.
Taking a candle from a wall sconce, she tread cautiously, for her sense of direction was rapidly deserting her. Many of the bedchamber doors she passed were, in fact, closed; yet some were not, and into these she peered with more curiosity than dread. Oftentimes, dust cloths covered the furnishings so that nothing but large white shapes greeted her inquisitive eyes.
Into one such room she finally ventured, its shapes enticing beneath the musty smelling linens. Setting the candle onto a dressing table, she pulled away a sheet from a large wooden case and discovered it to be unexpectedly filled with paintings.
Glancing around the room for further sources of light, another candle in a sconce was soon noticed on the mantle. At some time during the course of these efforts, she quite forgot her original intent to find and reconcile with her husband.
After igniting the second candle from her own, and setting both upon the bedside table, she carefully tugged at a picture frame until it dislodged itself from its companions.
Holding it as near the light as possible, she studied its subjects with interest. These appeared to be a small child stiffly seated upon the lap of a faintly smiling woman. The woman looked somehow familiar, yet, at the same time, remained difficult to identify. It was not until she scrutinised the child for some moments that
Elizabeth started in surprise. Why, it was Lady Catherine and Anne de Bourgh! Anne could not have been more than three years of age, yet her features were not so very different as to be unrecognisable. Even Lady Catherine displayed a far less imposing figure than that which she acquired in her later years.
"How interesting," Elizabeth thought, as she set it aside to reach inside the crate once more. The next painting was of a young man astride a horse. She knew immediately that it was Fitzwilliam's father, James Darcy, as she had seen many such paintings hung throughout the two other houses.
Obviously he had loved the hunt, for most of his portraits were done in just such a scene. A liver-brown hound stood at the horse's feet, its eyes staring at something beyond the range of the artist. In the background meanwhile, the impressive splendour of Pemberley was so faithfully reproduced that the sight of it caused her to suffer a wave of sudden homesickness.
Setting it down quickly lest she lose herself in tears once again, she reached for another. This was of two young boys standing side by side, somewhere between the ages of seven and nine, and sporting enormous feathered hats. Each was smiling mischievously at the artist, or at some point beyond; their expressions a mixture of challenge and delight.
The child on the left (the smaller boy) bore an eerie resemblance to her own son, James, and because of this she disregarded any doubt of it being her husband. Hardly aware of what she was doing, she sat, mesmerised, upon the bed, her eyes never leaving the painting.
"The other must be Colonel Fitzwilliam," she concluded after little needed further study. Although both were easily identified, her gaze returned again and again to the youthful Fitzwilliam Darcy.
Despite the length of time as his wife, she had beheld few portraits of him in such a natural, unsophisticated posture. In fact, other than one in the grand hall at Pemberley, painted when he was but sixteen, there were none at all to be found of him as a child.
She had, upon this discovery, thought it odd, but not entirely unheard of. Certain people of high rank occasionally considered childhood portraits as somehow demeaning or inauspicious in regards to their current situation.
Yet, maybe, he simply had them removed because they acted as painful reminders of the loss of his beloved parents. After all, he enjoyed the pleasure of their combined attention for such a short time; only eleven years or so. Would not any person of a sensitive nature behave in such a manner?
With dogged interest, she scrutinised the painted features, her mind attempting to relate this boy to the man who, by turns, frustrated, stimulated and exhilarated. His face, although still endearingly childish beneath the brim of that ridiculous hat, showed promise of the handsome, somewhat imposing gentleman he would become in time.
Perhaps it was his eyes which gave him away; for despite their being painted in partial shadow, the artist had recognised and exposed a certain undeniable complacency within them. "Yes," she mused aloud, "There can be no doubt that this boy should be fated a life of privilege and culture; that his world would remain as safe and secure as a king's."
Yet, she corrected herself, was it truly so in the end? He lost his mother but four to five years after this portrait had been finished, and had been introduced to a baby sister before even that painful event. Some people ... many people would argue that he was deprived of nothing of material value, so he had no right to want for anything more.
But even considering their present strained relations, she knew better.
He had wanted something more, which was why he had ultimately been persuaded to accompany Mr. Bingley to Hertfordshire. It was why he had not settled for the Miss Bingleys or Miss de Bourghs of the world, although a gentleman of seven and twenty was expected to have chosen a wife long before achieving such a great age. It was why he had been unwittingly drawn to the one female he was determined to avoid because of her low connections and family.
"And," she admitted at last, "it was the very reason I grew to love him in return." With a sigh, she touched one of the rosy cheeks of the likeness before her, the textured coolness of it almost a surprise, as the skill of the artist had made her forget that she was not looking upon two real boys.
A noise from the doorway startled her enough so that she dropped the painting at the sound, feeling unaccountably guilty to be found thus. Turning, she saw Platt, the head-butler, waiting there impassively.
"Madam," he intoned, "I was sent to inform you that Mr. Berrick has returned. You are being requested to join the gentlemen in the drawing room." He glanced at her dressing gown and added, "I shall dispatch Clara Brown to your chambers at once."
"Thank you, Platt," she returned, fighting the urge to display embarrassment before a servant. After he vanished as quietly as he had appeared, a habit she had, when first arriving at Pembridge, found most unnerving, she picked up the painting and replaced it in the crate reluctantly.
"I shall return another time," she promised herself; "Perhaps there are far more discoveries to be made; perhaps further insights into my husband's past, ... or," she smiled as her eyes fell once more upon the painting of Lady Catherine with the sedate, albeit childish Anne, "perhaps not."
Chapter Fifty-Nine
In spite of the fact that the clock read nearly eleven, Mr. Darcy did not hesitate to send for his wife immediately upon Berrick's arrival. He would not be accused of keeping secrets from her a second time.
Although he had passed the three days of their separation torn between resentment and regret, he could not bring himself to acknowledge any error on his part.
Instead, he hoped, dearly hoped in fact, that this benevolent action might supersede such a step.
By the time she joined them, Mrs. Wickham and Mr. Nelson had also been summoned, their appearance transpiring at the very same moment as her own.
Lydia, her excitement palpable, did not wait for a polite exchange of greetings. "Well?" she demanded of Berrick who was pouring himself a second glass of port; "What news have you of Wickham? Will he agree to the divorce?"
Berrick, glancing noncommittally towards Mr. Nelson, answered, "I could not say."
"What do you mean, man," Nelson inquired after settling himself into a chair. "Did you speak to him directly or not?"
"I did," he answered sauntering casually past the openly agitated Lydia; "and yet I did not."
"Please do not speak in riddles!" Lydia interrupted, her colour heightened, "Will Wickham divorce me at last?"
"He will, after all, have no need to do so," Bennett replied, his voice taking on an air of sympathy. "I am afraid Lieutenant George Wickham is no more."
Lydia's eyes grew round, and with a gasp she sank onto the nearest settee. "You mean to say that he is...?"
"If not yet, he very soon shall be," Berrick promised, taking a long drink from his glass. "I have ordered, quite generously I might add, the innkeeper to send a message at the moment of his ... demise. I do not believe it will be a long wait."
"Explain yourself!" barked Nelson impatiently, his eyes taking in the total amazement of the company. "Do not stand there like a blithering idiot, when we are obviously waiting for a thorough and detailed report."
Following the initial shock, Elizabeth's gaze turned to her husband. His expression, however, gave away nothing, and his own eyes remained focused on Berrick as that gentleman elaborated.
"I had little trouble finding him once I reached London. His creditors keep a close watch on him, I assure you. There is not much they do not know of his whereabouts."
Several nods of understanding from his audience encouraged him to continue; "As there is no way to say this delicately, ladies, I beg you will forgive me in advance."
Lydia emitted a sort of moan, but whether it was from dismay or impatience could not be determined, as the rest of them were awaiting his next words with rapt attention.
"He was wounded in a duel less than a fortnight hence...Over a woman as a matter of fact." Glancing around, and seeing none of the surprise he half-expected, Berrick went on; "The lady's brother called him out, and, of course he accepted. He had little choice in the matter."
"At last," Elizabeth murmured. The irony of her comment elicited no response other than an odd, sidelong glance from Mr. Nelson.
"As a matter of fact," Berrick stated after a moment, "Neither the lady nor her brother are strangers to you." He was speaking to Fitzwilliam, but his look included Elizabeth.
Darcy returned his gaze wearily. "I have little doubt of it," was his reply. "If this lady possessed wealth, property or connections, he must pursue her, and, most probably, she would succumb to his charms in the end. I am afraid it has always been so with Wickham."
"So ... he is hurt?" Lydia interrupted, "Should I go to him? Is he being taken care of?" despite the generosity of her words, her tone and countenance belied them. She appeared desirous of someone gainsaying this offer as soon as possible, and happily, her wish was granted forthwith.
"There is no need, Mrs. Wickham," Berrick assured her kindly; "He is well tended and being kept as comfortable as is possible. He is in considerable pain, yet some generous benefactor has supplied everything he shall require, including, I dare say, various drugs to ease his discomfort somewhat. As a result, I doubt he would recognise even yourself."
"And a funeral?" Lydia asked, her expression far from sorrowful, "Will he be buried in a pauper's grave? For if so, I know I shall be truly mortified."
"Lydia," Elizabeth began to remonstrate her sister for displaying such poor taste, but Berrick answered in the same gentle manner.
"Again, it is taken care of. I promise you Mrs. Wickham, he shall be placed well away from the graves of paupers and thieves, and a proper stone shall be inscribed with his epitaph."
"And the surgeon," this from Mr. Nelson, "harbours no hope of recovery? We are not all victims of some perverse jest?"
"I have seen him, myself," Berrick returned, his voice hardening. "It is not possible for a man to feign such vast losses of blood, nor to falsify such a hole in his ribs as was shown to me. No, I assure you, he will not recover."
This appeared to satisfy Mr. Nelson, for he arose, shook Mr. Berrick's hand solemnly and said, "A fine job, sir. I congratulate you on your success." Nodding toward the ladies, he took his leave with a nonchalance the Darcys could not help but envy.
Lydia still seated, began to mutter to herself, "And I suppose I shall simply have to attend the service. Someone must, after all...Oh well, it shall be the last thing I will be obliged to do as his wife, yet, I do so wish I was better suited to black." As she stood, a new equanimity seemed to come over her. "I vow I will not sleep a wink tonight," she declared to no one in particular; "The only remedy must be a long walk to clear my head." Then, avoiding her sister's eyes, she hurried out as well.
Silence followed her exit until Berrick, studying Darcy closely, inquired, "You have no desire to learn of the lady's identity?"
"Is it so important?"
"It might be, as she is from your own neighbourhood. You are bound to hear the gossip once you have returned to Derbyshire."
"Very well," Darcy conceded reluctantly, "If you must, although I will continue to hold Wickham, alone, accountable."
"Her name is Miss Kathleen Covington of Greenmont." Berrick, watching their reactions to this announcement, was not prepared for the icy expression in his brother-in-law's eyes, nor the sudden agitation apparent in Elizabeth's.
Without warning, she arose to her feet, bit her lip, and stared down at her tightly clasped hands in confusion.
Swallowing, she asked, "And her brother...? The one who ... Has he been imprisoned? Or will he later, when Wickham...?"
"Mr. Ian Covington is a barrister," was Berrick's reply. "His friends are powerful and quite sympathetic to matters of family loyalty. I believe they will ultimately concur with your husband."
For the first time since their disagreement, Mr. Darcy met his wife's eyes directly. The look which passed between them was cause enough for Mr. Berrick to tactfully excuse himself, and they were at last left alone.
She was hardly aware of the tears beginning to trickle down her cheeks until he whispered, "Please do not weep, my sweet Elizabeth." Then he came to her, his arms surrounding her as they had not for so many long hours.
Burying her face into his shirtfront, she ignored his plea, and soon every piece of his clothing she came in contact with was as sodden as she, herself.
His voice above her sounded strangely unsteady when he asked, "Why do you cry, my love? Is it for the plight of Covington or his sister? Surely not for Wickham...?"
"No," she managed at last while turning her face up for his kiss, "For us. I am so sorry, my darling. Can you forgive me my obstinacy?"
"If you will my own, as well," he returned, his lips meeting hers in such a way as to make her almost dizzy. Still, having yearned for just such an outcome, she was loathe to reclaim her bearings.
Sometime later as she returned her head to the comfort of his chest, she pondered aloud, "I cannot understand why I took the matter to heart so. It was as though I were someone else entirely. I mean, why should it signify what Lydia does in regards her marriage, or if you feel the need to play the generous benefactor' as Mr. Berrick alluded, or that I not be told of it? The worst of it is, that even if I had been, I am not in a position to have a say either way. He is not my husband, nor she my charge..." Falling silent, she listened to the rhythm of his heartbeat against her ear. After a moment she murmured, "I did discover something rather unexpected tonight, my love."
"What is that?"
"A portrait of you with Colonel Fitzwilliam packed away in one of the unused rooms abovestairs. You are both very young, and wearing hats of immense size and adornment." Smiling up at him as she spoke, he responded with a gaze of affectionate circumspection.
"I recall the painting, but am at a loss as to how you came to find it. It is not exactly in plain view."
"Actually," she explained, feeling a bit self-conscious, "I was on my way to see you. I presumed you to be staying in your father's apartment, but ... I found myself diverted by the chest of portraits. Why are they not displayed?"
Instead of answering her question, he repeated, "You were searching for me? Whatever for?"
Straightening away from him demurely, she admitted, "I wished to put our argument behind us. I was in hopes of you feeling the same." The look he gave her as reply caused her heart to beat so rapidly she thought it might leap from her chest.
This, of course was followed by several more kisses, until finally requiring a full breath of air, she pushed away from him. Deciding that this moment would do as well as any, she confessed, "There is something else..."
"The detection of some ancient manuscript perhaps" he teased. "What other secrets are you determined to unearth, Mrs. Darcy?"
"I believe..." she persisted as she lay her hands gently on either side of his face in order to quiet him; "That is, I have good reason to suspect..."
Something in her expression caused him to fall silent at last, but because his reaction reflected a gravity uncalled for, she felt her own serious mood fall away.
With another smile to reassure him, she declared, "Fitzwilliam, my love, ... my darling. I believe I am with child."
His eyes, never leaving her own, widened momentarily, then softened as he studied her countenance. "Is this," he questioned, his voice tender, "why you wished to put our argument behind us?"
"Well," she retorted, "It would be nice, if at the very least, our children might have parents who are on speaking terms with one another." Suddenly made uncertain by his lack of any obvious outward response, she implored, "Say that you are pleased, Fitzwilliam."
"Elizabeth." Taking her hands into his own, he raised them to his lips and kissed her palms. "I am...most pleased," he promised; then drawing her to him so that his mouth was very near her ear, he whispered, "When, my love?"
"February or so...it is difficult to know precisely. You shall not mind being the father of four?"
"Four or forty, I do not mind."
"Truly? Forty?" She raised her eyebrows in wonder; "How many wives do you expect to acquire in order to bear such a family?"
"There is only one I require," was his solemn answer as he bent to kiss her again, "And if she will bear me but four, I shall be the happiest man on earth."
He did not return to his father's former rooms that night, nor, as a matter of fact, on any of the nights which followed.
Chapter Sixty
With the return to Pembridge of Mr. Berrick, Mrs. Paquin declared that she and Bernadette must be departing for town within the week. Because of this, a picnic was planned at the ruins of the abbey on the second to last day of their stay.
The sun that morning arose warm and bright, and not a cloud appeared to dampen their spirits. Still, the company was not overly lively, save for Bernadette herself, who alternated between running and dancing in unbounded jubilance.
The younger children unhappily remained at home with Florence, but were mollified with the promise of an outdoor tea party as soon as the picnic was concluded.
Mr. Darcy, Mr. Berrick and Colonel Fitzwilliam promised that they would join the others during the afternoon, as certain business (apparently, that which could not be detained) would require their combined attention first.
Thus, the only gentlemen present were Dr. Brecht, who never left Anne de Bourgh's side, and Mr. Nelson, who led the entire expedition as proudly as though he had personally discovered the ruins himself.
Due to the narrow paths, the ladies were forced to either walk in pairs or alone; a situation not objectionable to any of them. Even Lydia's boisterous personality appeared to be noticeably subdued by recent events.
Georgiana, thankful her husband was returned at last, unselfishly restrained her joy while remaining near to Mrs. Paquin. Their conversation was spoken in soft murmurs on varied, yet perfectly innocuous topics: the lovely wildflowers along the paths, the songs of the birds overhead, and even the history of the house and abbey. Nothing was mentioned of the absent gentlemen, and especially of a certain one in particular.
Although the Baroness kept pace with Elizabeth, she spoke little; her mind apparently as engaged as Elizabeth's own. If either said anything, it was along the lines of, "Be careful of that rock. You would not wish to turn your ankle," or, "I hope the ground is not too damp along the ruins."
The Baroness' figure was broader now, although her gowns still managed to conceal much. Furthermore, she was acquiring that singular gait of the expectant woman; a sort of refined waddle. Over the course of the past several days she had confided in Elizabeth of her escalating inconveniences.
"I cannot rise from a chair with any grace whatsoever," was her good-natured complaint, "and when I am standing, my back aches so. And, please enlighten me if you will, however did you manage to position yourself comfortably when lying down?"
Elizabeth, meanwhile, having endured the process on three (soon to be four) occasions already, was nothing if not sympathetic to such tribulations. Her current pregnancy, however, being yet too newly discovered to be discussed aloud, was not mentioned. Desirous to have it remain in her heart as a delicious secret between she and her husband, somehow, she knew that it would not remain so for long.
They reached the main section of ruins in good time. The sun shone directly overhead and fortunately the ground proved to be not so very damp. Spreading their blankets over the sparse grass and on a few level rocks, they ate the simple lunch of bread, cheese, fruit and wine leisurely, the conversation agreeable and spontaneous.
Afterward, Bernadette dashed about, collecting bits of glass and stone and piling them neatly onto one of the blankets so that she could carry her treasure with ease later.
Lydia, who had been seated near her sister, stretched and yawned expansively before announcing, "Lord, I am becoming so sleepy. I believe I shall start back on my own." Without waiting for a response, she stood, stretched again, and waved as she left through the wood.
This was Georgiana's cue to move closer to Elizabeth and whisper timidly, "Elizabeth, forgive me, but I must know. Lydia said that Mr. Wickham is lying near to death in London. Please tell me, is it true?"
Elizabeth turned to study her sister-in-law's face kindly. "I should not wish to upset you, Georgiana."
"Then it is," Georgiana breathed. "I thought ... I mean I was not certain if Lydia..."
"...Would speak the truth?" Elizabeth supplied, amused by such reticence. "Yes, in this case she is. He was severely wounded and is not expected to live out the week."
With a sigh, Georgiana studied a patch of bluebells blooming nearby. "I suppose," she said at length, "that I should feel justified, yet I cannot help but pity him."
"He has earned that pity, surely," replied Elizabeth, "He has no one to blame for his situation but himself. Now he shall die alone and friendless, and who, in the end, will actually care enough to mourn his passing?"
Before Georgiana could answer, Anne de Bourgh joined them, her expression both anxious and sanguine. "Georgiana, Elizabeth, my dearest cousins, perhaps I should say nothing, yet I have remained quiet for so very long that I feel I shall burst if I do not tell someone." She glanced behind her, but as the others were some distance away, she continued in a low voice, "Dr. Brecht has made an offer, and I have accepted. We are to be married as soon as he returns from Germany."
"Oh, Anne," Georgiana, grateful for just such a distraction, responded happily, "I am so pleased for you!"
Glancing at the Doctor, who at that moment was helping Bernadette sort stones, Elizabeth asked reasonably, "And, do you know when that will be? Will he be gone for some time do you expect?"
"We hope it shall not be over a month," Anne answered, "He must see his practice turned over to his colleague, and have his personal equipment shipped back to England. He will follow as soon as he is able ... I have not mentioned this to him yet, but I shall urge him to continue his research directly from Rosings."
"Rosings?" Elizabeth turned her gaze to Anne with less astonishment than admiration, "What an ideal solution. And, why not, for heavens sake? It makes little sense to have the place sit half empty much of the time. You may as well put it to good use."
"That is just what I think," Anne agreed as she accepted congratulatory embraces from the two ladies.
The next few hours was spent exploring the abandoned stones and listening to Mr. Nelson's explanations of why they were placed as they were. Although tending to be a bit long winded, he spoke with the ease and knowledge of one who appreciates his subject completely, and wishes to pass along this same enthusiasm to his listeners.
At one point Georgiana inquired of Elizabeth, "I wonder where the gentlemen are? Were they not to meet us this afternoon?"
Elizabeth, with a shrug, replied dryly, "Who can tell? They have most probably become involved with some lengthy conversation on sport and neglected their promise. I suppose we shall be obliged to scold and denounce them when they do appear."
Behind them, the Baroness spoke, "Well, I feel no need to wait any longer. I believe I am quite ready to return to the house."
"Yes," agreed Elizabeth, noting how weary, dusty and generally dishevelled she, and in fact, the entire party, now appeared; "I think we have all seen enough for one day."
Convincing Mr. Nelson to accompany them was easier than expected, as he, himself was just deciding that a cup of tea beside a comforting fire was not an entirely unpleasant notion.
And so, the luncheon baskets were repacked, Bernadette gathered her bundle of souvenirs and they all began the, not terribly lengthy yet still rather tiresome, trek back to the manor.
The Baroness, walking heavily beside Elizabeth suddenly asked, "Mrs. Darcy, has Miss de Bourgh told you of she and my brother's betrothal?" Without waiting for an answer, she continued, "As a matter of fact she has kindly invited me to live with them in Kent, but I admit I am uncertain. I do not wish to impose. May I ask your opinion, please?"
"You know that you are always welcome in our home," Elizabeth assured her.
"So you have very kindly said, yet if I must depend on the generosity of others, should it not be with my own family? I fear friendship, no matter how honourable, can only withstand so much." Blowing out a short breath as she came to a decision, she went on, "No, although I am forever in your debt, I cannot take advantage any longer. I shall accept Miss de Bourgh's offer, and accompany her when she returns to Rosings next week."
"You could not ask for a more lovely home, that is certain," Elizabeth assured her, "and I know Miss de Bourgh will treasure your company. Yes, on the whole I consider it an excellent scheme. I congratulate you on such a happy prospect."
"Thank you," she returned with a guarded smile. "Although whether or not it shall be truly happy depends very much upon my husband. We will just have to see..."
The remainder of the walk was passed in contemplative silence. The only sounds were Bernadette's incessantly curious questions followed by Mr. Nelson's low-voiced replies far behind them, and the occasional bird, squirrel, or hare darting through the brush.
The place where the forest path opened onto the lawn was about fifty yards from the shoreline. This had been the most direct route for both locals and gentry alike when the house was first renovated, and so it remained still. Even in times of higher water, the path stayed well above the danger of waves washing it away. The second advantage was that it commanded an unhindered view of the sea; a necessity in times of war or when smugglers roamed the coast.
Now, as the party emerged from the cover of thick wood and overgrown shrubbery, a different scene awaited them.
Concentrating only on where she was placing her feet, Elizabeth received a shock when she finally looked up.
There, its hooves impressed upon the wet sand, stood a lone horse with a man of some stoutness seated upon its back. The distance between she and the horseman was great enough so that she was unable to identify him at once, yet not another moment passed before she knew without a doubt.
It was Baron Von Wold; here at Pembridge.
Once her wits recovered sufficiently she comprehended fully the alarming details of the scene below them.
The Baron was shouting toward the house; his words distorted by wind and the roar of the waves, yet an occasional syllable drifting up to the place where she and the others stood. "My wife..." and "Surrender her to me now..." were all that were the least bit recognisable.
Already Fitzwilliam could be seen striding towards the Baron from the terrace, while close behind him followed Colonel Fitzwilliam. Their progress was abruptly halted, however, when the Baron drew out a large pistol from his coat and pointed it at them with premeditated and lethal aim.
Suddenly, recollections of her recurring dream washed over her; the heavy air, the inability to move, the desire to shout a warning and yet being incapable of doing so. Frozen and helpless, she watched; vaguely aware that Mrs. Paquin was now beside her, small gasps of dismay issuing from her throat.
If she believed the situation could not worsen, she found herself soon contradicted. Without warning,
James, who had been avoiding Florence's attempts to be hurried indoors to safety, shouted, "Papa! Papa, look! A ship!"
Apparently oblivious to the acute danger so very near him, he broke into an enthusiastic dash in the direction of the shoreline; inadvertently setting off a chain of events that his mother would have a difficult time recalling later.
For, startled by this sudden and unexpected movement, the horse suddenly reared back, nearly throwing the Baron from its back. At the very same time, the gun discharged loudly, smoke pouring from the barrel.
In the space of an instant, Fitzwilliam had dropped like a weight over his son, his arms gathering the child to him tightly in order to act as a shield.
This was when Elizabeth seemed to awaken. With a short yet forceful, "No!" she burst into a run, her only thought to see her husband and child safe. So intent was she on her object that she was hardly aware of the boom of a second shot ringing out, nor that the Baron was now lying in an insensible heap beside his mount.
Some part of her conscious noted that Colonel Fitzwilliam had fallen as well, and that Mrs. Paquin was running just behind her, crying out, "Richard, oh, Richard!"
As she reached them, Elizabeth dropped beside Fitzwilliam, who by then, was raising himself to his knees. James, dirty yet unharmed, appeared more dumbfounded than frightened, his eyes as round as saucers.
Sweeping him into her arms, she, while forcing her voice to sound relatively calm, questioned, "Are you hurt? Are you all right?"
With his back to the Baron, Fitzwilliam demanded through gritted teeth "Elizabeth, tell me now. Is he dead?"
Glancing over to where the Baron lay unmoving, a grim Baroness standing over him, she answered shakily, "I am afraid I cannot tell."
"For if he is not," he declared, his aspect dreadful to behold, "I swear I shall kill him myself." As their eyes met, however, he drew a sharp intake of breath and gathered her into his embrace; keeping her there for some time.
Around them, people were now swarming; their voices a commotion of questions and exclamations.
James, who had recovered from the shock of having his father so uncharacteristically push him to the ground and then land on top of him, asked, "Did you see the masts, Papa?"
Managing a weak smile over his wife's head, Fitzwilliam answered, "Yes, my son, I saw the masts."
Several feet away Colonel Fitzwilliam was lying with his head on the lap of a most attentive Mrs. Paquin.
The wayward ball fired from the pistol had grazed the side of one of his boots, knocking his feet from beneath him, but otherwise inflicting little evident damage. As she cradled him in her arms, he looked as though he hardly cared if it had, for they were gazing at one another with tender consideration.
A gentleman in regimentals was running towards the group from another section of the wood, his scarlet cloak flying behind him.
He was followed by an enthralled Lydia, who was shouting to one and all, "Did you see that? Did you not see what a hero my Denny is? Lord, he saved both Mr. Darcy and Colonel Fitzwilliam with one shot!"
Captain Denny, for it was he, joined Dr. Brecht, already bent over the profusely bleeding Baron, and inquired, "Is he alive?"
"Yes," was the Doctor's constrained reply, "but I shall have to remove the ball at once, or I cannot say how much longer he shall remain so."
Several servants were instructed to transport the Baron indoors where he was laid upon the diningroom table; the only surface of adequate size which was also in close proximity to the terrace doors.
The rest of the party drifted into the house by twos and threes, attempting to make sense of all that had just occurred. As it was determined that Colonel Fitzwilliam could not walk without aid, two more servants assisted him to the drawing room with Mrs. Paquin following closely.
Mr. and Mrs. Darcy remained as they were until Florence appeared to retrieve James, her face still white with shock. "Forgive me, Mr. Darcy," she entreated, "I tried to get them inside as soon as the gentleman begun to shout, but he got away from me before I knew it."
"Never mind, Florence," Fitzwilliam replied while reluctantly disengaging himself from his wife's arms. "The distraction may have saved someone's life in the end."
"Thank you, sir," she returned meekly as she took James' hand and led him indoors.
Because of the state of their nerves, they assisted each other in rising, and then stood looking at the sea, their fingers still entwined. After a moment, Elizabeth inquired, "Did you truly see the masts?"
He smiled crookedly before answering, "I saw everything, and yet, I feel I saw nothing at all."
Chapter Sixty-One
Fortunately, Colonel Fitzwilliam suffered only a badly bruised ankle; not so much by the weight of the ball with which it was struck, but by falling afterward and turning his foot in a most unnatural fashion.
After having it wrapped and set upon a tasselled pillow (placed there lovingly by Mrs. Paquin, herself), he appeared content to only listen while the rest discussed the events of the afternoon.
"I most probably owe you my life, sir," Fitzwilliam addressed Captain Denny as he handed him a glass of wine.
"I was only glad I could be of help," was his response. "Obviously I had no idea of what the argument was about, yet I could hardly watch a murder being committed right before my eyes."
"Is it not lucky he was here?" Lydia chimed in, her face wreathed in the proudest of smiles. "For if not, you or Colonel Fitzwilliam might be dead as we speak!"
"Yes, thank you, Lydia," Elizabeth interrupted, glaring at her sister meaningfully. "It is most fortunate Captain Denny witnessed it all, although we still do not know why, exactly, he was present to do so." Scrutinising that gentleman in a manner not unkind, she asked, "Are your militia stationed somewhere hereabouts, Captain?"
Colouring, he nonetheless answered readily, "As a matter of fact, Mrs. Darcy, they are quartering in Rye for the summer. Therefore, as I was in the neighbourhood, I thought I might call upon Mrs. Wickham ... Since we are old friends, you see."
"Yes," she replied, torn between amusement and disapproval, "I believe I do."
At that moment, the Baroness entered, having finally abandoned her post from directly outside of the diningroom.
"Any word?" inquired Anne, as she quickly poured a cup of tea and set it on the table nearest to where the Baroness was standing.
Shaking her head in the negative, she dropped onto a chaise and closed her eyes wearily. After a moment, she reopened them and asked Fitzwilliam, "Will you send for the constable? If he should happen to live, I mean."
"What is your own opinion," Fitzwilliam requested noncommittally. "Is it your wish for me to do so?"
She sighed, "Yes, no...I hardly know anymore. He is a cad, yet I cannot help but pity him."
"I shall leave it up to you," he replied, "however, if, by some chance my son should have been harmed, I would not now be so generous."
"I thank you," the Baroness returned, her voice tight; "And indeed, if that were the case, I would not blame you in the least."
Silence followed this until Georgiana, still a bit confused, spoke, "Forgive me, but I am afraid I do not understand entirely. Baron Von Wold, our own relation, holds you, Fitzwilliam, responsible for the Baroness' coming to England?"
"I cannot suppose you do," her brother answered, showing no sign of wishing to explain further.
"My husband," the Baroness intercepted, "is a jealous, spiteful man. I am sorry that you,...all of you, have had to deal with such a miserable wretch."
"Helena."
Everyone turned expectantly as Dr. Brecht appeared in the doorway. He was clad in a kitchen apron liberally spattered with blood, but the look upon his face of such utter defeat is what drew their attention.
The Baroness, rising to accept whatever he had to report, steadied herself on the arm Anne offered for support. "Yes?" she asked, lifting her chin slightly.
"I am sorry, Helena. The wound was too deep."
He said nothing else, but turned and left as silently as he had appeared.
She did not move, her expression a study of mixed emotions. The rest stood by in silence, waiting for her to display sorrow, with which they might condole, or anger, with which they might sympathise.
She did neither. At length, she gave a sort of sigh and turned to scan their faces briefly. "Remember," she told them, "If you should see me weep, it is only for the sake of my child."
Then she walked out, her chin still in its slightly raised position.
Sometime during the night it began to rain again, and through such inclement weather a horseman arrived at Pembridge bearing a message.
Mr. Darcy accepted it; its inscription short and to the point.
Sir,Mr. George Wickham passed on at seven-thirty this evening. May God have mercy on his soul.
All arrangements will be completed forthwith, as was previously agreed.
Your servant,
Mr. Harold Hamby
Innkeeper - Great Oaks Lodge
London, England
That was all, yet it was enough. Instructing the servant to deliver the same message to Mrs. Wickham, he slowly exhaled, feeling as though a weight had finally been lifted from his shoulders.
The Baron's body, the German ambassador from London directed, was to be fitted in a casket worthy of his station and immediately shipped back to Frankfort, accompanied by himself and Dr. Brecht.
The Baroness, however, wanted nothing to do with either the travel arrangements nor the funeral service, which would be filled with much pomp and display. In addition, she had little desire to again encounter the Baron's brother, Marcus, under such inauspicious circumstances. Therefore using her "condition" as a most convenient excuse, she chose to remain behind and go with Anne to Rosings as planned.
Mrs. Bennet sorrowfully accompanied "poor, dear Lydia" to the funeral service of her favourite son-in-law, and mourned his passing with great relish for many days afterward.
Lydia, on the other hand, ignored the social expectation of passing a solid year in mourning, and wed Captain Denny but six months later. That gentleman, happily, turned out to be the making of Lydia, for he showed a stability and regard she had not hitherto known. Furthermore, he and Juliet formed a loving bond between them which guided her throughout her life.
Dr. Brecht and Anne married two months following the demise of the Baron; a small, quiet ceremony such as Lady Catherine would never have approved. The Doctor did, in fact, continue his research on nerve damage and restoration directly from Rosings and, in the process, earned certain prestige in the medical world. They were eventually blessed with two children of their own, whom Anne was determined should be vigorous, carefree, and most of all, happy.
The Baroness gave birth to a daughter, named Diana, and remained at Rosings until marrying a Scottish lord three years later, introduced to her by Mr. Nelson.
Colonel Fitzwilliam and Mrs. Paquin very soon followed Dr. and Mrs. Brecht to the alter, and settled in town where Bernadette could continue her education. She was joined over time by three brothers and delighted in teaching them all that she knew.
Georgiana was finally able to travel as she had so hoped, for as the date of their first anniversary was approaching, Mr. Nelson arranged for Mr. Berrick to tour the entire continent of Europe. "To," as he stated, "increase a sense of business acumen and to understand, fully, society's many foibles." And, "Of, course," that gentleman had added, "a woman of Mrs. Berrick's culture and education must accompany her husband, for she would undoubtedly act as an asset in any situation." Despite the keen wish otherwise, they remained childless, but were consoled with the frequent visits and attention of their nephews and nieces.
The Bingleys remained content, although no other child was attempted after the loss of Rachael. Their mutual regard and steadiness of character saw them through many trying and yet satisfying days. As they had hoped, their own children grew up in close proximity with the Darcys and as a result, the two families benefited in ways too numerous to account here.
It was reported that following the scandal in London, Kathleen Covington had returned to her sister's home in Liverpool, and would not be back in Derbyshire for some time ... if ever.
As for the Darcys; they returned to Pemberley in August, having learned more of themselves than they had ever anticipated. In February, Elizabeth gave birth to yet another son, Robert, and again eighteen months later to a daughter, Cecilia. Throughout the years, their love endured despite strife and disagreements, for after all, he was still Darcy and she, Lizzy, and as she had told her sister so many years before, "It is settled between us already that we are to be the happiest couple in the world."*
And so, they were.
Epilogue
The cemetery, although not large, boasted of many important personages; their families sparing no expense in sending their beloved ones off in fine style. On this particular afternoon, a carriage of suitable livery drew up to its gates, and a young woman descended alone.
She began to walk slowly between the stones, her eyes searching for a certain name. At last, she discovered her object. As she stood before the grave, she read the epitaph to herself.
George Herbert Wickham
Beloved Father and Husband
With a sigh, she wondered if it had truly been so, for she was never actually informed outright. Although her stepfather was as loving and considerate as a real father should have been, she felt a bit of a loss nonetheless.
She did not notice the cleric hurrying over to where she stood, his manner that of one clearly wishing to interrupt her solitude.
"May I be of help, madam?" he inquired hopefully.
"No, thank you," she replied, "I have already found whom I have sought."
The clergyman glanced at the stone and nodded, "If I may be so bold as to conjecture, he must have been a most respected and admired gentleman."
"Why do you say that? Did you know him?" she asked, at once curious.
"Oh no," he responded quickly, "As you see, his stone is dated 1818, nearly twenty years ago. I have benefited from this living but eight."
"Yes," she agreed, with some amusement, "I suppose you are too young."
"Thank you, ma'am," he bowed slightly, "But at any rate, the reason that I ventured such an opinion is because our little parish has been blessed with an annual donation in his name ever since his most unfortunate demise. Is that not an evident indication of how generous he must have been, himself?"
"I suppose," she sighed, her mind drifting to other matters.
"Might I inquire what brings you here today?"
She turned to study the cleric carefully, then with a shrug answered, "Well, if you must know, I am to be married tomorrow, and thought I should visit this place at least once before I am moved away."
A broad smile lit his face, "Ah, congratulations, madam. May I wish you a most felicitous union? And, whom is the young man? Perhaps I might know him."
"That is doubtful," she replied with a lift of an eyebrow. Turning away, she began to make her way back to the carriage, but as the possessor of an ample amount of conceit, he did not hesitate to follow her.
"I assure you, I know many people throughout London, although I do so hate to boast."
"Very well," she conceded in exasperation, "Mr. James Darcy."
"Ah," he beamed, "the Darcy family is very well known, and if I may say so, you are a most fortunate young lady."
Stepping into the carriage and settling herself into the warmth of its cushions, she smiled at last. "Yes ... I know."
© 2002, 2003, 2004 Copyright held by the author.