Chapter Twenty- Six ~The End of the Affair

Posted on: 2008-11-21

The waiter hovered and Darcy felt obliged to order. It was clear that he was waiting for someone, but it was still more obvious that the private sheltered areas were much sought after and could not be left to the vagaries of a loiterer, particularly an untitled one. Fitzwilliam was fashionably late. Darcy had a moment’s hesitation before ordering for two. It was foolish to be nervous, and even more foolish to be second guessing the venue for such a meeting. It had seemed safe. Public. A place that conferred respect. But on reflection the potential for a scene was drastically heightened in a public area and the choice of Whites could also be seen as disrespectful for the gravity of the situation.

Darcy mentally slapped himself for caring quite this much about his son’s opinion. Then he delivered himself a second slap for that thought. It was thoughts like that had brought him into this quagmire. In an attempt to stop thinking, Darcy opened a newspaper and scanned its contents, so he missed the moment Fitzwilliam dropped into the chair opposite him.

“Father.”

Darcy nodded at his son and pushed the port across the table. He waited until Fitzwilliam had taken a sip and used the brief moment to note his son’s countenance. He looked tired but not displeased by his surroundings. Fitzwilliam looked up and noticed Darcy’s attention and a expression of defiance replaced the otherwise inscrutable look upon his son’s face.

It made Darcy decide to confront the situation head on.

“Fitzwilliam, I intend to marry Elizabeth. I love Elizabeth. This is not a negotiable outcome.”

Fitzwilliam put his glass down. “Then you will not let her go a second time.”

“No I will not,” Darcy knew there was a stubbornness to his voice, but he could not bring himself to be ashamed of it.

“It must be your great regret.”

It was on the tip of his tongue to agree; after all, he had thought many times that he should have immediately sought out Elizabeth. That he should not have made assumptions, that he should have proposed better at Hunsford. Surrounding every interaction with Elizabeth was a sense of regret, except the regret that he had ever thought of her. Even now he regretted being quite so open with her in the park, not because what he said wasn’t the truth, but because he could have found a better way to confess.

But he had a sense that his son was trying to trap him into a corner with his regrets and for once in his life Darcy thought maybe he understood why.

“Fitzwilliam, I wonder what my life would have been like if I had not lost Elizabeth. This is natural; surely you can understand that. But it is not the same as the regret you speak of. Amelia brought fulfilment. She brought you.”

“I am glad that you fulfilled your duty.”

“You mention duty, not me. Duty is one way to fulfil your life. Love is another. This hatred you bear for everything, for me, is not fulfilling.”

Fitzwilliam gave him a look that clearly asked him where he had read such a homily. Darcy couldn’t fault him for that, he wasn’t an orator. A writer perhaps, but not an orator. Parental speeches in the past had not been particularly poetic. Or perhaps Fitzwilliam was looking at him such as he was because it was precisely the kind of speech he had come to expect. One that said nothing, but repeated the same word twelve times because Darcy could not think of another one with four syllables in time.

“What I mean is that nothing has to change,” Darcy caught himself in time, of course things would change but it would not change the essentials. “Fundamentally nothing will change. If you are worried about …whatever you are worried about, it will not come to pass.”

“You mean that you will marry Mrs Davis and you and she will not live together?” asked Fitzwilliam.

“I do not think that worries you.”

“I do not believe you have asked me what worries me.”

“No, I have not. But your thoughts were made very clear when you spoke to Elizabeth and me that day. And I found your grandmother’s letter.”

Fitzwilliam shifted uncomfortably in his chair, and Darcy knew he had hit a bullseye. “You found her letter.”

“I did,” confirmed Darcy. “You must know that nothing your grandmother wrote was true.”

Fitzwilliam raised an eyebrow at him.

“Your grandmother may have thought it was true at one point in her life. I cannot pretend to understand her. But no rational thinking creature could think like that.”

“Grandmamma rational? A novel concept.”

“Indeed. What I mean to say and I should say it explicitly… I never thought that you were responsible for your mother’s death. No one whose opinion matters, not me, not your mother, not Georgiana, not Kitty, not Ash, no one else of my family, no one of Amelia’s family thought like that. Even your grandmother who wrote such scurrilous nonsense, you cannot deny she loved you.”

Fitzwilliam shifted uncomfortably opposite Darcy and that was how Darcy knew he was really listening.

“I understand now that perhaps my actions have not reflected my feelings. I think perhaps this is a lesson that for me is the hardest learnt. I began learning it when I was a young man, and I still have not memorised and applied it. I find it very difficult to express… I would not have you think that…” Darcy rather thought he was proving his point.

He knew that he had appeared loving to Elizabeth, Amelia (he hoped at least) and to Georgiana. So why not his son? All he could think of was the fact Fitzwilliam was a son. He was trying to be a gentleman. The protective love shown to a wife or a sister or even, Darcy theorised, a daughter, would be unsuitable for a son. At least that is what Darcy had always believed. His own father had been strict and passed on his strictures in his study where Darcy was required to stand and nod. It was important to create a Darcy man.

Except he had left his son to follow his strictures in pride and conceit, he just had not recognised it as such until this moment.

“I have taken you to see the tenants at the Far Acre, have I not?”

Fitzwilliam looked surprised at the change of subject. “Of course you have.”

“You understand the duty of a gentleman towards his tenants. I have taught you that.”

“Yes,” Fitzwilliam nodded cautiously, now he suspected a trap.

“What is the difference between us? We are in a position of privilege, but that does not mean that the same concerns do not envelop us all. Petty arguments, worry about our loved ones, love. Human emotion is the same.”

“And it is not human nature to prize one thing above another,” was his son’s riposte.

“Perhaps, but comparisons between two very different things is not a comparison at all. I am capable of being discerning.”

“Mrs Davis, I am sure, is a very good sort of woman.”

Darcy attempted not to snort; that was not the opinion Fitzwilliam had previously expressed.

“She may very well be the soul of discretion and respectability. But that does not mean that she will make you a good wife. Or a happy one.”

“I think you should not hide behind such statements.”

“I am not hiding.”

“I know what your true concern is.”

“Strange since you have not asked me what it is.”

“What is stranger is that you have not expressed it. Your behaviour has been nothing more than disgraceful. But all could have been solved by merely discussing the subject with me.” Darcy knew he was treading on thin ice, but the ice needed to break. “I understand that you did not want to appear, “Darcy sought for the word and did not find the perfect one, and so went for the least clumsy, “cowardly in front of me.”

“You misunderstand me then. Did you not teach me the importance of conservation? Of prudence, economy and sense? I merely thought the effort would be wasted.”

If Darcy thought he was chipping away slowly and surely, his son had apparently gone straight for the axe. Darcy found it impossible to look directly at his son. It was as he feared. He had created himself too apart. He was still that man standing aloof and unapproachable, snubbing any approach by those he considered beneath him, at the side of a country assembly. Then he had Bingley and his sisters prompting him, in their very different ways – one attracting, the others repelling – to act more graciously.

But the very behaviour Bingley often saved him from, not that Darcy viewed it as such at the time, was what drove Bingley away and had left Darcy without such a guiding force. The very same behaviour which had meant that his cousin, who might have fulfilled the same role, had been disgusted with him and it was only through the good graces of his wife that that relationship had been rebuilt. Then he had thought Kitty merely silly and uncomprehending of the world around her, that the natural liveliness of a seventeen year old girl becoming a Viscountess had meant she had extended overtures of friendship to anyone in her path. Now he had no doubts that Ash had told her everything and it had only been Kitty’s natural goodness and desire not to see another family fall apart that had caused her to extend the olive branch time and time again.

No one had really taught him to laugh at his own stupidity, or to even recognise that he was capable of such folly. While Amelia had the intimacy to do so, her character and time had robbed her of the chance to do so. So he had remained uncomprehending of how his actions must appear to others.

He had thought that his attempt to be a model of virtue and expose his son to many influences had merely set himself apart from his son and caused him to split himself, trying to live up to the expectations of many. But it had run deeper than that. Fitzwilliam, Darcy could almost see now, had only ever attempted to live up to the expectation of one person, a person he did not think much cared. If he had not read that letter, it might have merely been a reserve that Darcy knew he shared with many of his circle; with that letter Darcy’s behaviour had taken a more sinister hold.

“At least I have the capacity to injure,” said Fitzwilliam mildly. That did make Darcy look up and he thought he saw a glimmer of triumph in his son’s eyes. It pained Darcy, but it proved that his theory was correct. At this point, any reaction from his father would be a battle won for his son.

“For what it is worth, I apologise. It seems I have hidden my feelings even deeper than I thought.”

It was a worthless statement but at this point in time no words to express his feelings came to mind. Anything else he said was likely to cause more problems. The spectre of Hunsford came to mind. There he had spewed forth some of his most hurtful accusations and it was not until he had meditated upon his thoughts and committed them to paper that his true meaning had been able to be conveyed.

“No, what is worse is the fact I do not think I ever believed in some of the things I said. Particularly to Davis. I said to him that I was sure you would leave Pemberley to him since he was the perfect son.” Darcy opened his mouth to protest, but Fitzwilliam cut him off. “No, I do not think you would ever do that. But because of your idea of duty and name, not because – “ Fitzwilliam couldn’t finish that sentence.

Darcy wanted to pounce on that half finished sentence and demand his son finish it to put into words what they were both thinking, but Fitzwilliam seemed to swiftly turn into another avenue of thought.

“I was surprised to hear at Pemberley you admit that you had once insulted a woman in public. That was not very gentlemanly.”

He wanted to respond that he never claimed to be a model all of the time, but the truth was that he had. When Fitzwilliam had played cricket on the south lawn and hit a ball through one of the windows, terrifying a maid, he had stood before his young son and said ‘I wish you would look to me as a guide for your behaviour’. It had implied that Darcy himself had never had such an accident.

But that was how a father should act, he had thought. His father had acted in such a manner. Even when Fitzwilliam had been sent down for the rest of the term, Darcy had said it was not such a great matter, but he had lectured his son heavily on how he himself had never been sent down. The fact that he almost had never left his lips, that he had relied on the expert manoeuvring of his eldest cousin to manage to hush the whole thing up had never been revealed.

Darcy had always deplored Ash’s fathering techniques but he could not argue that they were unsuccessful. Maximilien, Oliver and Alexander were all gentlemen. They behaved rather too rakishly and wildly for Darcy’s liking, but he was not their father, so it was not his concern and it was unsurprising considering their sire.

He had been horrified when his first year up at Oxford Maximilien had become entangled with a lady of some dubious virtue. He had been touring estates with Ash at the time and had been with him when the inevitable father-son confrontation had happened in Max’s rooms.

It had seemed at the time that Ash was more concerned with not finding out directly from his son, and his laissez faire approach which seemed to consist of saying ‘If you must behaviour in this fashion why could you not at least do as I did and…’

Darcy had thought it lamentable at the time: the idea that his cousin could admit such weakness and set such an example. He did not hold with the idea that mistakes would always be made in one’s youth.

But surely, if anything, it had taught Maximilien that if he truly was in difficulties his father would pull him off point non plus, and be able to understand how he got into difficulties in the first place. Of course Darcy had not seen that; he had seen excusatory behaviour not empathetic.

“No, it was not.” Darcy leant forwards. “I do not claim, I never meant to claim, that I have never… Elizabeth.” Darcy stopped. “I insulted her, her family, made assumptions about her life; I insulted possibly a whole county. I have tried to be the sort of gentleman that I would wish my son to be. I am just not sure I have succeeded.”

“I am sorry that I am not a facsimile. Thank you for the drink.”

Darcy put his head in his hands.

Elizabeth smiled at the retainer as he shuffled away. He had seemed reluctant to allow her to wait in the room for her son to return from wherever he had gone. Elizabeth could have gone to wait in the park, but it was far too cold for that, and the park made her think of a subject upon which she did not wish to think.

Of course, she had thought she might meet the young man who had caused the subject of Darcy to be so painful to her. But she had prayed that she might escape such a meeting.

She was not to be so lucky.

“Mrs Davis.” It was the sort of false politeness that if Elizabeth had not known better, she might have sworn was learnt from Miss Bingley.

“Mr Darcy,” said Elizabeth, equally as politely.

“I am sure you will be relieved to know my father has every intention of marrying you. Your honour will be intact. He told me so just now at Whites just before he told me how disappointed he was that I was not the son he wished to mould.”

Elizabeth blinked. “I beg your pardon.” She felt she must have heard the young man incorrectly.

He opened his mouth to repeat himself but Elizabeth hastily reassured him that this was not necessary. “I did hear what you said, I just needed a moment.”

Sitting down upon the sofa, she almost muttered to herself. “Of course he would think it appropriate for such a conversation to continue at Whites. He feels the middle of Hyde Park is appropriate for declarations when everyone must have seen me run away! Insufferable man!” But she said it affectionately.

Now it was the younger Mr Darcy’s turn to say, “I beg your pardon.”

Elizabeth did not feel equal to repeating herself but she had a feeling that his statement was equally as rhetorical as hers had been. Indeed it was because he continued speaking.

“It might explain why we are unwelcome in the county of Hertfordshire.”

Elizabeth’s lips twitched. It was certainly true that Darcy had managed to make himself most unwelcome there. It was a true proficient that made her mother detest the sight of a single gentleman with ten thousand pounds a year.

“You do not deny it?”

“I fear your father would be quite run out of town!”

Now Fitzwilliam looked interested, he almost looked eager. “What, pray, did he do?”

If the son was looking to hear that the father had enacted the most grievous crimes he was to be disappointed. Elizabeth smiled, “The worst. He would not dance with any ladies. He insulted them. He would hardly speak unless spoken to. Spent a great deal of his time staring out of windows.” Elizabeth almost laughed at the thought, “And yet he swears he was in love with me during that time! I cannot understand how I was supposed to know. I do not think anyone has broken that particular code.”

“Oh,” said Fitzwilliam.

Elizabeth had an idea that it was because suddenly the conversation was not about his father, but about her and his father. “I do love him. Your father. I do not agree with him all the time. I shall not agree with him all the time. But he is indeed the best of men. I have been fortunate enough to know, love and respect many of those rare men.”

Fitzwilliam’s hands clenched and Elizabeth reached out to him. She had felt a great deal of pity for him when Mrs Gardiner and others had been comparing him to his father. She had always stressed upon Henry the importance of not making any of their children feel as if they had to live up to being either one of them. Living up to standards was one thing but no two people were identical. Of course it had not stopped Henry teasing Henrietta specifically about looking so much like her mother. “If your idea of your mother has been changed by learning more about your father’s history, it does not follow that the change should be an unwelcome one.”

When he did not take her hand Elizabeth drew back. “I do not intend to be anything but… my presence cannot erase the past.”

“For you perhaps.”

“You think your father…?” Elizabeth was confused.

“We might as well be plain with each other. It becomes more patently clear to me as the days wear on that some recapturing of youth is at the forefront of my father’s mind. I do not doubt that he would prefer it if the last twenty years had not happened. I thought, when my grandmother so helpfully informed me that my mother would not have died if I had not existed, that this was no doubt the reason for the considerable reserve and his need for me to strive for perfection. Except of course if my mother was not the reason for his existence, it can only be that I have merely disappointed him in every way imaginable. My mother’s letters asked me to love him, to respect him and to look after him. I cannot imagine why she bothered to request the last of me.”

Elizabeth could only think of saying what was on the tip of her tongue. “Because she, like me, could see the truth: he can be completely blind to his own actions and how they affect the world.” Elizabeth paused to allow her voice to have the vehemence that her next sentence deserved, “and no mother would ever think that about her child. No mother. And I cannot believe it of Darcy. Your grandmother, Darcy’s mother I mean… he has never blamed Georgiana, has he?”

Now she would not let him draw away. “I know your father has considerable reserve … “

“He seems to have none with you.”

Elizabeth felt frustrated; would nothing get through to this child? “But I cannot doubt that he loves you.”

Elizabeth meant that his relationship with Georgiana had proved to her that he was a caring man who would make an excellent father. He may have failed fantastically along the way, but like she knew now that her mother loved her and had shown it in her strange ways, she knew Darcy loved his son.

Their relationship had been one of equals; when he had expressed his ardent love for her while at the same time insulting her so irrevocably, she had been able to seize onto his words and bring them down around his own head. A child could not do the same thing. Thomas was loved unconditionally and she had seen him disagree with his father and have it be on the tip of his tongue to say something and be unable to do so. Indeed she had been shocked, but never so proud, of her son when he had explained to her his difficulties in accepting her actions.

This selfish, blind, enraged child in front of her in no way reminded her of his father. Where Darcy controlled his emotions, his son seemed to radiate them. It was even more clear that her decision did not just include Darcy. It was not like when she was twenty and accepting Darcy would mean that she and he would live at Pemberley together and her father would visit more often than he expected.

But it was not an off-putting thought. Elizabeth had always liked a challenge, and she had made so many mistakes with her own family that maybe she could atone. More importantly, she wanted it.

Chapter Twenty Seven – The End of Dinners Alone

Posted on: 2008-12-05

Twenty years may have had their effect on Mrs Gardiner, but she was still as elegant as Darcy remembered. The feeling he had felt on seeing Elizabeth’s relatives for the first time at Pemberley had stayed with him. It had been another kick in the stomach to realise once again how wrong he had been.

He knew it had been some years since Mr Gardiner’s death, but he still offered her his sympathies. Indeed, he regretted not knowing Mr Gardiner more than the several days’ acquaintance at Pemberley. Mr Gardiner had not been ashamed of who he was, of what he was; he carried himself with dignity, humility and good humour. By his very being he had challenged Darcy’s ideas about trade and society; he had been someone Darcy could have looked up to.

“Thank you, Mr Darcy,” replied Mrs Gardiner sincerely. Darcy thought she might have continued the conversation by asking if he was there to see Elizabeth. Mrs Gardiner, however, seemed disinclined to be so familiar. Darcy could not tell whether that was because she thought it improper or whether, like her niece, she delighted in the follies of men and wished to hear him confess his reason for visiting her.

Darcy decided to play the game properly and after taking the seat that Mrs Gardiner offered to him inquired after her family and her health, she responded in kind but he thought he could see a smile in her eyes.

“You must enjoy having your niece and her children staying with you.”

“I do!” Mrs Gardiner lit up. “It has been some time since I had children around me, although neither of the girls would like to be known as children, they think themselves quite grown up. Elizabeth is at home, Mr Darcy, I think she would like to see you should I call for her.”

“I would be delighted to see Mrs Davis,” replied Darcy, thankful Mrs Gardiner had in the end decided to be kind.

Elizabeth was dressed in a simple morning dress, one that had seen better days, but Darcy did not think he had seen a woman look so well as Elizabeth did at that moment.

After their greetings, it came as no surprise to anyone in the room that Mrs Gardiner suddenly recollected something that called her away.

“My aunt is not subtle, is she?” teased Elizabeth after the door had closed.

“I thought her subtlety itself,” responded Darcy truthfully.

“Then I shudder to think what you have been exposed to all these years,” laughed Elizabeth. “Fitzwilliam,” she came to clasp his hand, “I am sorry we parted on bad terms.”

“I am not sorry for it,” Darcy replied, “I could not have gone on as I did blind to everything around me.”

“Not blind to everything.”

“Perhaps not everything,” Darcy gave her that. “But in many things I have been, to cause you to doubt me …”

“I should not have been so cruel to you; your pain was real and I can only have added to it…”

Darcy squeezed her hand, “I shall stop this quarrel over our actions and who caused the other the most pain.”

“Very well, but allow me at least to say that neither of us, over our long history, has conducted ourselves irreproachably.”

“I will grant you that, and hope that at least with each other we have learnt civility.”

“More than that, I believe we have openness.”

“But you will allow me to tell you that your reaction to my behaviour towards my son made such an impression on me. I know scarcely what I think of myself in that regard. Your look of reproof, your inability to even look at me, it spoke more than a thousand words could ever do. In that instant, I knew my failings.”

“I hope you have also seen how to resolve them?”

“I confess I have not that power at this present time.”

Elizabeth opened her mouth to speak but Darcy held up his hand. He must speak. He must say what followed, for all she might despise him afterwards.

“As a child I was taught what was right, but I was not taught to correct my temper. I was given good principles, but left to follow them in pride and conceit. Unfortunately an only son (for many years an only child), I was spoilt by my parents, who, though good themselves (my father, particularly, all that was benevolent and amiable), allowed, encouraged, almost taught me to be selfish and overbearing; to care for none beyond my own family circle; to think meanly of all the rest of the world; to wish at least to think meanly of their sense and worth compared with my own. When I met you, I found myself questioning myself. You taught me to be humbled. I could not conceive of a refusal, at least not by you as I saw you then. You know how I saw you Elizabeth. I could hope that in the past twenty years you might have forgotten the words I spoke to you. But as I have not forgotten your words to me – that I could not have addressed you in any possible way that would induce you to accept me – I cannot hope you have forgotten mine.”

“I will forget them if that is what you wish.”

“It does not matter, Elizabeth, for I cannot forget them, because if I do I might lose that lesson so ably taught to me.”

“I can, nay I have, forgiven those words.”

“Then that is all I wish, except I must say that your lesson did not stick as it ought. I sought Amelia out and recommended myself to her in the most proper of ways. I made no assumptions about her or myself, and I believe I chose, under the circumstances, quite well. But then it all ceased.”

“You, yourself, had an only son.”

“Indeed and I raised him in an even more ill-conceived fashion. I thought by not spoiling my son that I could avoid the greatest of injuries to his character. But it seems that spoiling, or not spoiling was not the cause of my selfishness or his. My selfishness sprung from too much love badly directed. His has sprung from not enough. That I did not mean to do, please tell me that you do not believe I could be…”

Darcy found he could not finish his sentence. But Elizabeth, it seemed, did not need him to.

“No, I do not believe that for a moment, Fitzwilliam. I have heard you speak of your son and in such loving tones. Although somewhat exasperatedly. I think you guilty of nothing else but not knowing how to express that love. I think perhaps that you over judge Fitzwilliam. I do not think him to care for none but his family circle. I think he cares too much for everyone’s opinion but he hides it; I feel he thinks too little of his own sense and worth.”

“In other words he is far more redeemable than his own father?”

“The young are much more adept at learning new tricks,” responded Elizabeth.

Darcy felt cold all of a sudden, like Elizabeth was trying to tell him that as much as she loved and respected him, that it was not enough.

“Elizabeth…I know that I have so little to recommend myself. An alliance between ourselves would be so unequal, it would have given my former self so much pain! I have my untutored self. I have my disastrous relationship with my son. You would give me change, love, a home, a family – in essence you would give me life.”

Darcy tried to look into Elizabeth’s eyes to see her reaction, but she had her head ducked down and once she had looked up she had composed herself. Except she could not hide the blush that had spread across her face.

“Sir! I am too old for blushes. You cannot see me in such a perfect light. You changed yourself. You realized your faults and attempted to rid yourself of them. You may not have perfected that attempt, but I added to my faults!”

Darcy tried to disagree with her, but Elizabeth would not have it.

“I, who was so harsh on your reaction to the world and your implacable pride in your place in it! I turned my back on my family, on my life, on everything. I decided that I must be the only person hurting after my sister’s disgrace, that I was the only person who saw the truth. I thought Jane made herself into a martyr, that Kitty was grasping for anything and everything, and that Mary buried herself in pronouncements and judgments. Did I once think that the reason I saw such things in my sisters was not because they were behaving that way, but because I was? I exiled myself and rallied in knowing I suffered greatly. I looked for an escape and friends that did not know of my family and its disgrace. I judged everyone around me!”

She took a deep breath and held his hand tighter. “Do you not see, Fitzwilliam, that we are both equally flawed, and that we cannot change the past?”

“All we can do is look to the future,” added Darcy with a smile.

“You see we are in perfect charity with each other.”

“Except you must guide me through these first steps, for I still find myself lost.”

“I think we should think of others; my son reminded me that I have not been thinking of my children as I ought. Indeed as I scolded you for your behaviour I had not been behaving much better. My daughters hardly know you, sir…”

“I cannot think an extended acquaintance would improve me …”

“It has improved you greatly in mine,” Elizabeth teased him.

“Very well, I bow to your greater knowledge.”

“I think a quiet family dinner, here, would be a good first step.”

“I am yours to command.”

“That is grossly unfair, Mr Darcy, for now to be equal I must place myself at your command and I am uncommonly fond of commanding myself.”

Darcy laughed and kissed her hand.

He had expected an official invitation; a summons the next day was surprising. So surprising that he had not realised that this was the family dinner that Elizabeth spoke of until he stood in the hallway.

Darcy reached out to catch her by the elbow, and stopped her from following her aunt up the stairs.

“Elizabeth, I had not realised that ... “

“It is a family dinner, Fitzwilliam, it is nothing formal.” She laughed at what Darcy supposed must be the hunted expression on his face. “They will not eat you alive; well, Emily will not at least.”

“I meant that if this is a family dinner, for all its informality, then we – no I – should have thought to invite Fitzwilliam. I cannot conceive of him accepting such an invitation but he is part of,” Darcy knew what he was about to say was the truth but it could not be unsaid, “ our family.”

Elizabeth reached up to cup his chin. “Indeed he is, and you should not worry. I have already planned an assault on that front.”

It was not a blinding epiphany, he had known for some time, but this is why he loved her. Moments like this when she thought as he did but had done so before he had.

“I cannot believe he accepted.” That was the real surprise, not that Elizabeth had thought of him.

Elizabeth ducked her head, “I may have engaged in some subterfuge.”

Darcy did not like the sound of that. Elizabeth, for all her love and affection for him, and by extension all that surrounded him, did not know Fitzwilliam. Darcy knew his stubbornness had been carried on tenfold in his son.

Except Fitzwilliam did come, although it was apparent he had not realised that dinner or his father would be involved in his evening plans. Davis and Fitzwilliam appeared to have come directly from Jacksons. It was evident that they had been boxing, not fencing, and Fitzwilliam seemed deeply embarrassed to be seen in such deshabille.

“Oh, Thomas, Fitzwilliam, you must stay for dinner,” If he hadn’t known better Darcy would have sworn Elizabeth was utterly surprised to see them.

Davis rapidly agreed, and Darcy thought he was rather the weak link in this charade, but his son was distracted and did not notice his friend’s rather poor acting.

“I would be delighted …ma’am…but I could not sit down in ... “

“Nonsense! It is just an informal dinner,” Elizabeth shepherded both boys into the room and with one hand waved Davis away from the decanter and with the other handed Fitzwilliam a glass.

“Mother!” Davis seemed to take this favouring of Fitzwilliam amiss.

“Well can you blame me, Thomas? I still remember that time your father had to fish you out of the pond. I thought you might drown.”

“I was fifteen!” retorted Davis.

“Indeed! Far too young to be carousing, and I have little proof that you can now handle your port.”

Davis flushed and ignored his sisters’ giggling.

“Indeed ma’am, when I first met your son…”

Darcy stiffened because he caught the look on Davis’s face; this would not be a tale that should be told to a mother.

“…it was much the same. Except there was no pond, just the gutter.”

As Davis relaxed so did Darcy. It was most unlike Fitzwilliam, particularly in his current frame of mind, to not use every weapon in his arsenal.

“See, Thomas, and you ask me why I cannot bear to see you imbibe. You might not have your father or such good friends to rescue you next time.”

As Davis tried to defend himself, Darcy saw Fitzwilliam being drawn into conversation with the eldest Miss Davis.

“Aunt Gardiner, well really my Great-Aunt Gardiner but that is a mouthful, could play, and we have enough couples to dance. Your father and my mother, you and I, and then Thomas could have Emily.”

Darcy expected a reaction at Miss Davis’ easily coupling of himself and Elizabeth but Fitzwilliam seemed more shocked at the idea that he would be expected to dance.

“What about Jeffy? I am sure he would be most jealous,” interjected Davis, who had extricated himself from his mother’s strictures about public drunkenness.

“Do not speak to me of Mr Jefferson.”

“I thought he was ever your close friend?”

“Don’t be so vulgar, Tom!”

“Has he done something?” Suddenly Davis was all brotherly concern.

“If you call insulting me something,” sniffed Miss Davis.

“He insulted you? I cannot imagine Jeffy insulting anyone,” Davis looked bemused. Fitzwilliam looked lost. Although he had the experiences of his cousins and of Ash’s children, Fitzwilliam had no direct experience of sibling relationships.

However, it appeared he had misjudged his son’s confusion. “Who is Jeffy?”

“Mr Jefferson,” sighed Miss Davis.

“Mr Hildebrand Jefferson,” added Miss Emily, as though the first name said it all.

“He insulted my book,” revealed Miss Davis and she produced the offending item. “Mr Darcy, do you not think it is an excellent read?”

It amused him to hear his son being called Mr Darcy. Fitzwilliam looked as if the last place he wanted to be in the world was sitting on a sofa in Mrs Gardiner’s drawing room surrounded by Davises but he had made no move to escape as yet.

“Paul Clifford,” read Fitzwilliam. “I do not believe I have ever read it.” This was said tightly.

“Oh you must. The highwayman is the hero, and it is ever so adventurous!”

“No wonder you are on the outs with dear Jeffy,” said Davis, “He is not at all exciting; I do not think he even knows what a blunderbuss is!”

Fitzwilliam laughed at that, which made Darcy aware of the fact that while this ‘Jeffy’ was a complete unknown to him, he was not to the younger set, although his son apparently did not know him in such familiar terms. That did not surprise him; his son’s manners rarely allowed him to use the affectionate if perplexing terms oft given to young men by their bosom pals.

“But I would think Mr Jefferson particularly interested in the vulgar vice and fashionable vice,” said Miss Emily, who then blushed when she realised what she might have implied. “I mean in the sense that all vice is vice. Is it not, Mama?”

Elizabeth smiled, “Indeed it is, but now I am intrigued as to what my daughters are reading. Is it at all acceptable? Have you read this book, Mr Darcy?”

Darcy cleared his throat, not at all expecting to be called upon. “No, I find I do not recognise it.”

“I thought a well stocked library and the improvement of the mind by extensive reading a particular passion of yours?”

Darcy still found himself the focus of the attention of every person in the room but his son answered Elizabeth’s question.

“But this is a novel, ma’am. I do not believe my father ever thought great notions to be found between the pages of a novel.”

“Then your father is much to be pitied and I find I cannot laugh at such a fault, for true imagination and wit lie between the pages of a novel. But since so many of us are without knowledge of this particular novel, maybe you will consent to read some out loud to us while we wait for dinner? Aunt, did you not say it may be a little while?”

Mrs Gardiner supported Elizabeth’s statement, and it seemed that unless Fitzwilliam wished to be utterly rude that he had no escape. Of course, Darcy had seen that his son was capable of the rudeness required but something, perhaps the attention being sent his way and the ease and deftness in the way Elizabeth handled him, or maybe it was even their conversation at Whites, restrained Fitzwilliam.

“It was a dark and stormy night; the rain fell in torrents, except at occasional intervals, when it was checked by a violent gust of wind which swept up the streets (for it is in London that our scene lies), rattling along the house-tops, and fiercely agitating the scanty flame of the lamps that struggled against the darkness.”

“Can flames struggle?”

“Shush, Thomas. Mr Darcy is speaking!”

Although it seemed to Darcy’s eye that Fitzwilliam agreed with Davis’ assessment of the opening of the text, the reading continued punctuated with Davis’ comments, Miss Davis and Miss Emily’s consternation at such interruptions and Elizabeth’s strong desire that her children should let her hear what Fitzwilliam was saying. Darcy felt a sense of warmth spread over him which had nothing to do with the fact that Mrs Gardiner kept a good fire.

Chapter Twenty Eight – The End of the Circular Reasoning

Posted on: 2008-12-12

Darcy had certainly tasted better meals, but he could not think of one he had consumed in more convivial settings. He found himself unable to contribute much to the conversation, but he hardly had to.

Miss Davis and her sister amply filled any silence into which the table descended with their views on books, London, and childhood tales. Davis equally contributed and Elizabeth was content merely to comment, but she earned Darcy’s smiles when she made the effort to draw Fitzwilliam into the conversation.

His son had never been loquacious, and it was not to be supposed that one evening surrounded by garrulous companions would change that, but he answered Elizabeth’s questions and Darcy was satisfied.

Once or twice Darcy thought he saw Davis examining him, but he could not think why the younger boy would do so. Of course he might be protective of his mother but Darcy thought that Thomas Davis was, if not precisely happy, approving of his relationship with Elizabeth.

The informality of the dinner meant that when the ladies stood up to retire to the drawing room, Elizabeth invited the gentlemen to join them immediately. Thomas took up his mother’s offer, and it seemed that Fitzwilliam would be steered in that direction since Miss Davis was talking to him about a morning ball that needed more male partners. Darcy shook his head at Elizabeth; he would join them in a moment, but he needed a short time to recover from the jocularity. He needed to think. It was not often that Darcy found himself in a situation where he was so cut off from his own thoughts, particularly not situations where the reason was a cacophony of young persons.

The drawing room had a small enclave where Darcy could open the window to enjoy a cigarillo. He rarely did indulge, though he found it far less messy than snuff, but he found he needed its calming presence. It seemed polite to waft the smoke out of the room; after all the home was no longer a masculine home and Mrs Gardiner would be unused to the smells left behind by a man.

Thus he rather felt like a guilty schoolboy when his son cleared his throat behind him and Darcy tried not to look as though he was hiding behind the curtains blowing smoke out the window.

“I am sure my departure will cause no comment, but I felt it polite to inform you of it.”

“It would be politer still to inform Elizabeth of it,” remarked Darcy. Fitzwilliam’s lips narrowed to the point of disappearing. “And I am sure the ladies are expecting you to continue with your reading.”

“We would not wish to disappoint the ladies,” Fitzwilliam was sarcasm itself. “Though I think you would be an acceptable substitution.”

“Fitzwilliam…” Darcy stubbed out the cigarillo. “Cannot you admit that your evening has not been an unwelcome one?”

“Being dragged to a dinner against my will, set upon by young ladies who are so variable as to be offensive, and forced to read drivel. Yes, it as certainly been an extraordinary evening.”

Darcy did not know how to answer that; and he felt extremely awkward when, looking past Fitzwilliam’s shoulder, he realised Elizabeth had entered the room, no doubt to call them both to the drawing room.

“But it has highwaymen, Mr Darcy. Surely you can’t conceive of anything more exciting?”

Now it was Fitzwilliam’s turn to be flustered but Elizabeth laughed. “Have a safe journey home.”

Fitzwilliam bowed stiffly and left the room.

“You could not have made him stay, Fitzwilliam,” said Elizabeth lightly. “Do you know what I would have said to someone who asked me about my feelings for you after I had left Lambton? That it had come on so gradually that I could hardly point to where it had begun. Small steps, Fitzwilliam, small steps.”

“I have spoken to him, Elizabeth, but I do not think he heard a word I said. Your sister has suggested a letter; she seems to think it a skill of mine. I do not know where she came by such an idea.”

Elizabeth smiled, “Perhaps because it is the truth? I think that an excellent idea, if you can find the words.”

“That might be the problem.”

Being in a rare passion and the night stretching out before him might have been the crucial ingredients in writing the letter that so changed Elizabeth’s opinion of him, but they did not seem to be working in this case.

He had also taken an early leave from Mrs Gardiner’s and for the past three hours had been staring at a blank piece of paper. His quill had been mended several times and he had made sure his ink was acceptable, but nothing would come.

It was ridiculous. Utterly ridiculous.

How did he even start such a letter? ‘Son’, ‘Fitzwilliam’…

Darcy sat in his chair in his shirttails, having stripped off his jacket in an attempt to revitalise his thoughts, and listened to his silent house.

Except he heard footsteps; Darcy had sent the servants to bed. Well they had hardly needed sending; there was little for them to do with their master fed elsewhere and readying himself for bed. His valet had offered to stay up, but Darcy had dismissed him; he hardly needed help undressing and if he did he did not know when that might be.

If the current state of the letter was anything to go by then Darcy might never sleep again.

Darcy opened his bedroom door and found his son.

“I would have thought you not yet returned from Gracechurch street, if you intended to return,” Fitzwilliam spoke mildly but Darcy felt the sting.

“Come in, Fitzwilliam.” It was not a request.

His son stood stiffly by the fire that still burnt in the hearth.

“I am making an attempt to write a letter.” It was an inane a beginning as anyone could hope for but it was the beginning. “But since my recipient is standing in front of me, perhaps I do not have to commit it to paper.”

“I go back to Oxford shortly; you do not have to banish me on paper.”

“That is not what I wished to write to you about. If you could remain silent for one moment and listen.”

“Very well.”

“I think you should read the letter that your mother left for me before her death. It may mean very little to you, if you consider it to have been a planned and staged final communication, unlike the letters your grandmother left you. But I think that she would have liked you to have read it. It was supposed to be a letter to me, but it seems on reflection so wholly devoted to your happiness, and mine.

“I cannot expect you to understand, but I loved your mother. It is true that if Elizabeth had accepted me when I proposed, or later if we had been thrown back into each other’s company properly, that I should not have married Amelia. But if I had not met Elizabeth I would not have loved and respected your mother. I was utterly convinced of my own worth, and that anyone connected to me must be valued only by their connection to myself. I could not have offered anything to any woman if I had come to them with those as my accepted wisdoms. A woman – indeed, a man as well – is entitled to respect and appreciation based on their own merits. A marriage is about the meeting of minds and feelings. Any marriage I contracted before I met Elizabeth would have fundamentally been unequal because I would have only seen the benefits granted to the young lady by her connexion to me; I would not have seen what blessings she could have brought me.

“I was humbled by the fact that Elizabeth did not care for my behaviour or my person. That to her I was not a gentleman. My selfish distain for the feelings of others repulsed her.”

Darcy took a breath and leant back against his desk, his hands flexing against the wood.

“But Elizabeth was not my wife. Amelia was. She did not much care for my position when I met her. I know now that some of her letters from a difficult period in our lives have been read by you, but I would have you understand. Amelia was hurt by my having a previous interest, and I was hurt by her dismissal of that interest. But we understood each other. We loved each other. I think perhaps we were too similar to do much good with rounding each other’s sharp corners, but that does not hold that our marriage would not have lasted with more affection than others. She wished for you, more than anything… if anything, perhaps I would have grown jealous of your relationship with her. She would have spoiled you, and been far freer with her emotions. I have not that ability. I knew I could not recommend myself to strangers, but I was unaware that I could not even do so to my own son. But I realise that while the symptoms are different the cause is the same.”

It was true. Darcy was unwilling to perform to strangers because he had no wish to let down his guard and invite people into his private sanctums. If he admitted it to himself it was because he always thought that they would disappoint him, or that he would disappoint them. It was the same with his son; although he had never thought Fitzwilliam would disappoint him, just that if his guard was dropped his son would stop his hero worship.

“I find myself guilty of the sin of pride. I once said that where there is real superiority of mind, pride would be always under good regulation. I hope that you can see the flaw in my logic.”

Darcy paused to see if his son would answer his question.

“I am sure my professors would be most disappointed if I could not,” was his son’s response.

“I am sure that they would be, but can you see it?”

“I was not aware this was an examination. What is the consequence of failing?”

“Reassuring your father that he is not the only man in existence who lives a flawed life?”

Fitzwilliam snorted, “Then I am sorry to disappoint you. I expect your logical fallacy is in your premise: circulus in probando. or perhaps petitio principii. Either way there is an element of circular reasoning, and evidence of the proposition being in your proof. Your statement relies on one being able to identify a real superiority of mind and not just any mind, but one’s own. Except to assume that you have a real superiority of mind must be evident of pride because there is no higher opinion of oneself than to see one’s mind as better than the majority. Thus if superiority of mind is the regulator of pride then it is no regulator at all.”

“Oxford has had some uses then,” replied Darcy with a snort. If someone had said that to him when he had been at Cambridge then his life would have been very different. “So we have identified my cardinal sin. Do you begin to understand?”
“Not at all.”

“I was afraid of that. My pride was what stopped me behaving as I ought to, in all respects of my life. I thought I had beaten it, but I fear I have not. I did not wish for you to see me as anything but the best gentleman, the best master, the best fencer …and so forth. What I forgot to put on that list, because I thought the summation of those parts equalled the whole, was the best father. I could not let you see my weaknesses. The end result is that I have appeared unloving and uncharitable.”

“I always wished for you to see me in my best light,” was Fitzwilliam’s quiet response, “Even if it was not as you wished, I could not be … “

“This is my error not yours, Fitzwilliam. I never wished to imply that I wished for a facsimile as a son. That would be the height of hubris, and I am not quite at that lofty place. I know I have faults and that you could be a far better man than I.”

Darcy let that hang in the air for a moment before continuing. “Indeed I am proud of you. You certainly have the courage of your convictions.”

“I do not think it was courage; it was motivated by fear.”

“Nevertheless, while I cannot commend your sentiments, you will not stand idly by.”

Fitzwilliam had his shoulders hunched and he kicked at the embers in the hearth pushing them back into the fire.

“I cannot help but think that I have managed to shackle not only myself but you as well, Fitzwilliam. I know it is easy to rectify, at least for those in our station: L'homme est libre au moment qu'il veut l'être but I find it more difficult than that.”

“Man is free the moment he wishes to be?” Fitzwilliam was surprised.

“You think I should have forgotten my school boy French?” It was true if Darcy was asked to carry on a conversation in the language he might be quite stilted but he could still remember how to quote.

“I am not surprised by that: I did not think Voltaire would be acceptable to you.”

“I did not think my son should enjoy such writers as Keats and Byron. I thought you a traditionalist.”

“Even a conservative being can see beauty where it exists… even when it is penned by a revolutionary.”

“Indeed, and what beauty has to say is not unimportant.” Darcy paused. “We have never spoken of poetry before, I believe.”

“I did not think you had much to say. I did not think that you appreciated novels either.”

That of course was Darcy’s fault. The idea of overtly swaying his son’s opinions (except of course to correct faults of impression, such as in reading an edited version of an original) by displaying his own feelings towards poets and books had repulsed Darcy. He knew the joy in opening a book, be it poetry, a work of prose fiction or a history and having one’s own opinions. Georgiana’s opinions had grown too close to his own as she only read those books that Darcy enjoyed and it had made him uncomfortable, particularly after Elizabeth. He had sworn not to influence his son in the same way, but he had not had the foresight to see that discussion after the reading could be beneficial.

It would have allowed a bond to grow between father and son and allowed Darcy intelligent conversation, of which he had felt so deprived within his household after the death of Amelia.

His cousins were not unintelligent and he had had many a conversation, nay argument, with them over the years but it was impossible to have too few sparring partners in that regard.

“I may be staid in my taste,” warned Darcy.

“I cannot see that your tastes would be any different than what we are taught at Oxford.”

“Should you like to discover it?”

There was a shrug, but Darcy saw the interest that lay beneath it.

“You know that I am to go back up to Oxford soon.”

Elizabeth looked fondly at her son; she did not wish him to go, but she must part with him she knew. She was glad he had been here with her during this time.

“Is this a request for an advance on your allowance so you may kick up a proper dust?”

“Mama! Be serious.”

Elizabeth schooled her expression into one she hoped disguised her amusement.

“I do not like the idea of leaving you unprotected in London.” Thomas clearly expected her to argue this point, so he paused dramatically, and when she made no comment, he looked at her so confusedly that Elizabeth had some difficulty in not laughing. “But I think we both know that you are not unprotected.”

“Indeed.”

“And I must thank you for understanding my reservations.”

“Of course, my darling boy,” said Elizabeth stretching out her hand, “I should always hope that you could express your reservations to me. That anyone could.”

“I still wonder if…”

“Yes?”

“Well, Mr Darcy did not seem particularly lively at dinner.”

“I do not think it is his way,” replied Elizabeth. She had noted that and wondered at it. He could be all openness with her, and even occasionally tease her, but he pokered up in the company of others. It could have been his son’s presence that constrained him at dinner, or the presence of her children. An informal meal which was commonplace to her and her children could be only foreign to him. “But he will learn, and liveliness is not the only virtue, Thomas.”

“But as I would feel uncomfortable at a table, or in a household, surrounded by those who were reserved, so must he feel uncomfortable in a household where the reverse is true.”

Elizabeth could only own to the truth of her son’s statement. But she did not hold that this would be the case. The more she knew of Darcy, the more she saw his carefully constructed walls of defence. The drawbridge was lowered, in very different ways, for some and it could only be a matter of time before it was lowered in the presence of her children.

Henry had never been as lively as either herself or her children and they had loved and respected him. Darcy was not the same as Henry but she thought that they could learn to understand his character and appreciate it as much as she did, even if he was not one to tell jokes.

“I do not mean that I think this should prevent any…” Thomas seemed to find it difficult to continue, out of embarrassment Elizabeth suspected, but her son conquered it. “alliance.”

“You make me sound like a state. What you mean is marriage, Thomas.”

Thomas smiled. “A marriage then.”

“You know I love you and your sisters so very deeply, and that I loved your father.”

Now he really was embarrassed. “Yes, Mama.”

“Good, I should not wish for you to forget that.”

“I shall not. I have had no reason to doubt you.”

“Really? I should have thought I could think of many.”

“I have forgotten them.”

Elizabeth kissed her son and hugged him to her, ignoring his muffled “Mother!”

This motherly scene was broken up by the announcement of Mr Darcy.

Elizabeth released Thomas, and watched as her son turned red when he realised it was the son, not the father who had walked in upon this touching scene. His fleeing not long after was thus unsurprising.

“Mr Darcy,” Elizabeth curtseyed to him.

He looked as if he had spent the whole night awake.

“I have come to tell you that I do not agree, but I shall not cause any more trouble.”

“That is very welcome indeed, but you do not look as though you are untroubled.”

He looked confused for a moment until Elizabeth pointed out his unkempt state.

“I spent most of the night speaking with my father and I do not believe I slept, indeed I cannot do so now.”

“I am glad that you have spoken to Fitzwilliam. At least I would be glad if I could be assured that the proper subjects were brokered.” It was an imposition but Elizabeth could not assume that they had spent the night discussing the rift that lay between them.

“Shelley was certainly discussed,” he paused, “Percy Byshee Shelley, not Frankenstein.”

“I had thought as much, although discussing Frankenstein would explain the lack of sleep. Did your father tell you the story about his reading that book when you were an infant and quite unwell?”

A shake of the head was his mute answer.

“Oh, well, he did not wish to sleep while you were so unwell, and of course picked up a novel to while away the time and he said he could not have picked a book more designed to keep him awake.”

“He wished to stay awake while I was ill?”

“Of course. He is a father.” Elizabeth held out her hand to him, “And I am a mother. I am not your mother of course, but that does not mean that we cannot be friends?”

Elizabeth waited for his response.

Chapter Twenty Nine – The End of Fitzwilliam

Posted on: 2008-12-19

Although the girls heartily complained, Elizabeth drew down the sash of the window and let the air swirl into the carriage. Proper fresh air was perfection itself after their time in London.

She could barely contain her excitement at the idea of visiting the Lake District. It was perhaps undignified for a woman of her advanced years (Henrietta’s sniffs certainly showed that she thought so) but Elizabeth could not bring herself to care. All those years ago she had been disappointed by the fact her uncle could not be spared from his business for that length of time. Of course if he had been she would have very likely never visited Pemberley, never fully changed her opinion of Darcy, and well… Elizabeth turned her mind from such thoughts.

Then when she had married, Henry could barely be spared at all from his estate and the village, and when he could Elizabeth preferred to visit with family (his family mainly, and Jane). So the Lake District had remained unknown to Elizabeth except through poetry.

The boys had returned to Oxford, and Elizabeth had been sad to see them go. Thomas had been affectionate in his parting and young Darcy had been gruff. Elizabeth may have overstepped the terms of their truce by not only examining her son’s trunk for proper warm clothing but also his; that was perhaps stepping into the bounds of motherhood.

Young Darcy had not entirely accepted Elizabeth’s overtures of friendship but he had been uncommonly polite and civil after she had offered her hand of friendship to him. As far as Elizabeth was concerned, he had accepted her offer, just not in words.

What she was embarking on at the present time was perhaps a little daring, but she was a widow, and not a young widow at that, and visiting the Lake District with her children with a male escort …there was nothing inherently scandalous about that. Except that the male escort was only tangentially family, although Elizabeth knew that those circles that cared were expecting an engagement notice any day now.

Darcy was riding along side the carriage. Only particularly inclement weather drove him into the carriage. She did not blame him, he was not one to be cribbed cabined and confined, and entertaining Henrietta and Emily would be beyond him. It was certainly beyond Elizabeth at times.

“Mama, are we not there yet?” Emily had tossed aside her book, a sure sign that she was growing fatigued of the journey.

Elizabeth had not been paying attention to the milestones as much as she had been admiring the view, so she had no idea where they might be. After she waved to attract Darcy’s attention, he drew his horse closer to the carriage.

“Emily would like to know when we shall arrive.”

“It cannot be more than an hour, Elizabeth. Unless the road deteriorates.”

“An hour!” complained, Henrietta giving Darcy a look that seemed to blame him entirely for the fact they still had such a way to go.

A week ago, Elizabeth might have intervened, sheltering Darcy from having to respond, but he would have to learn, and she would have to trust that he was capable of doing so. Not only would Darcy have to adjust but Henrietta and Emily also.

She had heeded Thomas’s advice and worries about whether Darcy could really ever be comfortable around the girls, and them around him. But Thomas had forgotten one crucial thing: Darcy was not to be their father; he could never replace Henry.

“I apologise, Miss Davis, for the slowness of my carriage.” It was hard to tell whether he was teasing or serious. Elizabeth rather thought the several days journey on horseback was tiring him. He would not admit it, men rarely did, but Elizabeth thought she could see it in his eyes.

Henrietta rolled her eyes, throwing herself back into the cushions dramatically, and Elizabeth sighed. The holiday she so longed for and the girls had been excited for until of course the reality of the journey, may not be the success she had wanted. Taking her little family away from London to see rocks and mountains, for which she had a love that was unbounded, seemed to be an ideal way of slowly inching their way forward to being a family.

Darcy had employed agents to find them a charming cottage, and when they had finally arrived Elizabeth’s breath had been taken away upon seeing it. The housekeeper was entirely capable, laying out baths and a good spread of food and their luggage had arrived before them and was already unpacked. Elizabeth felt her spirits soar.

They plummeted to earth after dinner, for Henrietta and Emily clung to her most uncharacteristically. She felt their foreheads and they were flushed. It did not seem to Elizabeth that they were particularly unwell, just in the first throws of illness that could descend into a proper illness or with judicious treatment be easily remedied.

She had just settled them into their bed, and listened to them moan about their aches and pains, which seemed to have devolved into a competition, another sure sign that it was not particularly serious, just an unwelcome intrusion into the holiday, when Darcy’s manservant stopped her in the hall.

“I am sorry to intrude, ma’am, but Mr Darcy would like to see you.”

“Yes, is he in the parlour?”

“No, ma’am, he is in his chamber.”

Elizabeth had a feeling she was not going to like what she found in his chamber. There was no possible way that Darcy would send his servant to arrange an assignation. Indeed he had been somewhat horrified at her teasing that they were widow and widower, and society would not talk a great deal if they did not get married.

They had spoken of marriage and it seemed the hurdles to their marriage were external. Darcy did not wish to marry until he was sure that his son was accepting, and Elizabeth did not wish to marry until she was sure they could all be a family. So of course Elizabeth had lightened the mood with the idea that these should be no bar to their union. It had taken Darcy a few moments to realise what she was suggesting, and begged her to relieve his suffering and tell him that she was in jest. Of course she was; Elizabeth had self control and would much rather be married. But she was practical, their coming to the Lake District was daring even with the girls.

Kitty had raised her eyebrows when the plan had been put forward, and had echoed the number of bedrooms in the various options offered to Elizabeth by Darcy’s agents. Darcy had not noticed the tone in Kitty’s voice but Elizabeth and her husband had. Elizabeth had scolded her sister later.

“But you cannot blame me, Elizabeth. You are a handsome woman; he is a handsome man.”

“Propriety, Kitty!”

“Hang propriety!” Kitty had then smiled. “But what I should like above all things is for you to have news of the best kind when you return. I should not be surprised if Darcy was planning something.”

“It may not be romantic; this is not the best time to visit the Lake District. “

“It will be far more romantic than being in an old morning dress, which the youngest Master Muffet had just thrown up on, in a nursery,” Kitty pouted.

“I thought you said Ash proposed in Hyde Park amongst the backdrop of flowers?” She may not have paid a great deal of attention at the time, but she was quite sure that was what Kitty had said at Longbourn.

“I lied, Lizzy. I lied.”

Elizabeth had not been able to contain her laughter at that point.

Pushing the door open to Darcy’s chamber, it was as she feared. He looked unwell. All that riding in the rain at his age was likely to do that to a man.

“Elizabeth, I fear that I find myself …“

He was trying to sound dignified. The ultimate sign of a male in distress.

“Shall I make up a mustard plaster?”

Now he looked resigned. “Since we have reformed our acquaintance, I have felt twenty years younger; now I feel as though I have aged overnight.”

“One is only as old as one feels certainly, but …” Elizabeth let her sentence trail discreetly off.

“I am well served for my foolishness.”

“You are not foolish, Fitzwilliam, merely headstrong.”

“If you would be so kind as to arrange some poultices, I am sure that I shall be well enough to accompany you and the girls on your proposed tour tomorrow.”

It was naturally the case that as three of the party had succumbed to aches and pains that the weather had started to look as if it was turning.

Elizabeth smiled at Darcy’s hope for feeling better in the morning, but she knew it was a forlorn hope. The girls were feeling far better in the morning, but not well enough to accompany her on her tour and Darcy was still confined to his bed.

Darcy was not a patient patient. He was not Jane with her calm serenity. He reminded her somewhat of her children. It was not that he complained or moaned. Elizabeth would have found herself incredibly disconcerted if Darcy had moaned and complained. It was that he was convinced he was well enough to get out of bed when he so clearly was not.

It became patently obvious that one effect of having no wife (or indeed of only having a son) was that nothing Elizabeth could say would convince Darcy that he could not sit up in the parlour. It had only been her quick thinking in asking the maid who was serving them how arduous a tour around the countryside that day would be, that prevented Darcy from entering the carriage he had impetuously called around.

He and the girls were happily playing cards as breakfast plates piled up around them, and Elizabeth was happy to watch, but her eyes kept being drawn to the window and the beautiful weather outside.

It was the sunshine that drew her outside. The carriage had not yet been sent back to the stable, and she wondered why, but she noticed the sound of rumbling carriage wheels and realised they must be waiting until this particular vehicle passed by.

Except it did not pass by; it slowed itself, and Elizabeth smiled. She had not pressed Thomas (or the younger Darcy) to visit them from Oxford, indeed she had focused very hard on how important it was for her son to catch up on his studies and to stay out of any more scrapes. But she knew that her desire to have her entire family with her had bled through onto the page.

Except Thomas did not step forth out of the carriage, the younger Darcy did; it was a slight shock that her son did not follow him and it caused Elizabeth some confusion.

She had still not formed a distinct idea of what to call her future step-son. Fitzwilliam was out of the question if she was to call her husband that; so was Darcy in a sense because Darcy would always be Darcy. Mr Darcy was slightly ridiculous and far too formal for their relationship, however strained.

Elizabeth realised her confusion must have shown on her face, because he grimaced. “I am sorry that I have disappointed you. But Davis has not come, he had lectures. He has formed some notion of continuing up in a couple of days but I should not pin my hopes on his abilities.”

If one had asked her Elizabeth would have to say out of her son and Darcy’s she would have picked hers to be better able to navigate the pitfalls of travelling across the country, but that she would keep to herself. Instead she sidestepped the name issue entirely and reached out her hands.

“Of course I am not disappointed. I did not think you should wish to travel to see us.” Elizabeth was a fan of plain speaking, and she saw by his reaction that she was correct, but something else was lurking underneath. “Unless it is not us you have come to see, but rather you are avoiding someone in Oxford.”

The change in expression answered her question.

“Baliffs?”

“I beg your pardon!” He sounded annoyed that his honour might be so impugned. “If you must inquire, since if I leave you with that impression you will just tell my father, I find myself being cast in the role of bear leader for this – “ he broke off, apparently his views on this young man who had taken it into his head to follow him around wishing for him to introduce him to Oxford society were not for a woman to hear.

“You are not speaking of my son, I hope,” smiled Elizabeth.

“That is Max’s undertaking, not mine, although it is all their fault.” He sounded his age then.

“Well you have escaped, unless he has the means to travel to the Lake District.”

“I hope not,” muttered the boy under his breath.

“I hope not too, because I do not think your father would like a stranger amongst us at the moment,” at his querying look Elizabeth added, “I am afraid too much riding outside in the rain has resulted in a cold.”

The younger Darcy looked slightly horrified though Elizabeth did not know whether that was because he did not wish to catch the cold or he knew his father’s temperament when ill.

But looking at him she had an idea; entwining a hand around his arm she led him towards the carriage that Darcy had called around for their tour that day. “We were to go touring today but as your father feels unwell and the girls are not much better, they are sitting sedately inside playing cards. Of course I could not go alone, but now that you are here …” she looked up at him.

It was in some respects pure manipulation, he might not wish to spend the day with her, but she could tell he was the sort of boy to be driven mad by a pack of invalids playing cards.

So he did not complain; he even helped her into the carriage.

“Thank you, Mr Darcy. See that sounds so ridiculous, but what can I call you?”

“My family appear to delight in calling me ‘little one’.” Now that Elizabeth knew was a magnanimous offer, and one that was surely a test.

She looked down at him from the carriage. Usually she looked up at him. “Now that would be ridiculous! Well, I’m sure you were shorter than your father at some point…”

Elizabeth wished that she could sketch, and then sketch well, in order to capture the views that they were taking in. The housekeeper as well as putting a packed basket of food in the bottom of the carriage, had placed a sketch books and some pencils. Clearly young ladies demonstrating their talents was part of most tours of the district.

The open carriage lumbered around, and at a great many hills they had to disembark as the horses could not pull their weight as well as the carriage’s up the hills.

Elizabeth thought she should not have thought badly of Darcy for not behaving appropriately for his age as now she was clambering up mountains and fording streams as if she was twenty once more. Indeed even her companion had difficulty keeping up.

“Ma’am…Mrs Davis…”

“Elizabeth!” she replied, cresting the top of a hill to look down upon the most pristine view of her life. The lake surface lay still and unchanging, the mountains above so completely etched in its surface. She had once said to her aunt, what were men to rocks and mountains but she had not meant it. Now she thought if she were to say it again she might mean it. “Is this not perfection?.”

She expected him to disagree with him, after all the peaks of Derbyshire were not to be denigrated, and he did not seem to be a country boy. Though looks could be deceiving; she had not thought Thomas would settle into such a widened society so well. Perhaps she was turning into Lady Catherine, always thinking of ‘spheres’ that people were bubbled up in and unable to quit.

But he remained silent, just looking. Perhaps he was sick of lakes. It was entirely possible, although their driver had told them that only one lake was in fact named ‘lake’ something or other. He was holding the sketchbook in his hand, and Elizabeth felt sorry that she had not told him that she would not be using it before he went to all the trouble to bring it up here with them.

She left him staring at the lake as she moved to climb higher still. Part of her wished she was sharing this with her children, or with Darcy, but another part of her relished the solitude that enveloped her. Looking down back towards the lake, she realised that she was fulfilling both desires, she was sharing this with family, but one whose nature, if not his understanding, allowed her to experience the views in serenity. Her daughters would be filled with questionings and babblings and Darcy and Thomas would, like her aunt before them, concerned about her taking a fall.

She did not know how long she stood there basking in the sunshine just soaking in the view, but she finally stirred herself to walk back towards the carriage.

Her companion had taken a seat and Elizabeth realised that he had not acted selflessly; the sketchbook had never been for her. Peering over his shoulder she did not think that this was an endeavour he had ever explored; perhaps the views had seized something in him, but that did not mean there was not some talent there.

Realising her approach he covered it up and tensed. “I was bored.”

Elizabeth smiled and took a seat next to him although she might need a helping hand to rise and she hoped he would help rather than leave her to the mercy of the driver. She pulled the pad out of his hands.

“Well I think boredom becomes you. I never acquired the skill.”

“I do not think it takes a great deal of skill.”

Elizabeth did not take the bait. “Not here perhaps.” She noticed that at the bottom of the incomplete sketch he had written ‘Will’ and the date.

“I could hardly add my own name.”

Elizabeth smiled. Of course he would think such a hobby beneath him.

“So you are not going to neglect your duties and run off to become an artist, or a poet?”

“Well I am sure Davis could amply fill my place if I chose to act so rashly.”

“My son has many good qualities,” was all Elizabeth would say to that. “You do wish to be master of Pemberley, do you not?”

She worried for a moment that he might misunderstand her, wilfully or not, that she was angling to supplant him with her son.

“I do not know. Do I have a choice?”

“I think if you should wish for one you do. I am a great believer in choice. Although that right can be squandered in the worst way…” she drew in a breathe before continuing. “My youngest sister, Lydia, is the best example. Circumstances perhaps had not allowed her to see her way clearly and it could have been prevented, but she made a choice that at the very least she knew was daring, even if she did not know the consequences. She eloped, well meant to elope but I cannot say if the marriage was ever concluded or not.”

Elizabeth wasn’t sure why she told him that; perhaps he already knew, perhaps he didn’t. It was certainly ammunition against her.

“I should not say circumstances, as though I did not mean the way my sister was allowed to behave by my parents, and her elder sisters. ‘Circumstances’ sounds so much less like the failures of man.”

“And woman.”

“Indeed.”

Her companion it seemed had nothing else to say on the matter, instead he changed the subject “My cousin, Max, says that it the family’s expectation that a notice will be sent to the papers upon your return to London. Or Pemberley.”

“I have heard that expectation, although if your father was looking for the perfect moment and spot I think he must fail. A snuffly nose is not perfect.”

“But will not stop your positive response.” There was no accusation.

Elizabeth smiled, “If he proposes with a mustard patch attached to his chest, I will lie, and say that he proposed here. You will keep my secret?”

“I do not think I should support a lie.” He was so like his father. But then he tore the sketch off the book and handed it to her. “You may tell them he sketched that for you.”

“The cornerstone of a good lie to society is that it sounds plausible. I shall tell them that it was a gift from my stepson.”

Elizabeth did not press him any further and they just enjoyed looking out over the lake.

Chapter Thirty – The End of Galahad

Posted on: 2009-01-31

Darcy could not but help raise his eyes frequently to the window. Elizabeth had vanished. Part of him was disappointed in her, that she could leave him and her children invalided as they were, although he knew in his heart that Elizabeth was many things but uncaring to those in need had never been her fault to own. Knowing that, he could only suppose that she was not avoiding them for a selfish reason, but perhaps the desire to tramp through the fields surrounding their cottage was keeping her away longer than she thought.

Of course, she could be injured, and it was that thought that kept him looking out the windows.

"Hi! You there!" Darcy spotted a boy walking outside the window.

The youth obligingly opened the window, "Yes, sir?"

"You have not seen Mrs Davis?"

"Yes, sir."

Darcy waited for the boy to continue, but he just looked expectantly at Darcy.

"Where is she?" he prompted.

"She went on the tour of the district," was the slowly enunciated response and Darcy got the impression that it was not because the boy was slow but rather the fact the boy thought that of him.

"Without us?" Henrietta looked up from her game on the floor.

"It would appear that way," said Darcy shortly. It was highly irresponsible for Elizabeth to traipse about the county on her own. But he knew what her feelings would be on the subject; the same that had brought her six inches deep in mud to Netherfield to see her sister.

"Well she had a man with her," said the servant helpfully.

"Thomas!" said Emily. "I knew he would come, did I not tell you, Hetty?"

"Well it was nice of him to greet us before going to see the countryside. What if we had wished to go?"

Henrietta had complained bitterly all the way to the Lake District about not wishing to be dragged about the countryside looking at identical trees. Darcy thought she had rather a selective memory.

"You wished to see dirt?" said Emily in a rather good impression of her elder sister.

"Well I should rather see that than watch you trim that bonnet badly."

"That is because you are feeling better. This morning you felt differently and you know it," rejoined Emily.

"Mr Darcy," said Henrietta turning regally to him, "Did I not say this morning that I would accompany Mama?"

He knew Elizabeth wished for him to befriend her daughters. They would become, in the eyes of society, his daughters very shortly. He would be responsible for their well-being and their futures. It would be very easy to gain Henrietta's friendship but Darcy could see a cost involved with her capricious nature.

Darcy had never, obviously, had a daughter but he had raised Georgiana. Georgiana's sweet nature was rather the exception than the rule, like Bingley's character had been amongst men, but even she had cost him many a sleepless night. Indeed daughters like Henrietta and Emily might be better than a daughter like Georgiana who folded in upon herself and did not intrude upon your notice until the moment she almost fell into the abyss.

Although it did not follow that the nature of a child must be the nature of the adult, neither did it follow that the nature of the child must change. He of all people knew that last fact. There was no reason Henrietta, or indeed his own son, would become a productive member of society, one who their parents could be proud of.

Nonetheless he could not lie. "I believe it was I who this morning wished to accompany your mother on her sojourn despite my illness." In the interest of fairness he added, "I believe that makes you the more sensible of the two."

He was favoured with a smile, and in her face Darcy recognised the Elizabeth of her youth and impulsively he returned her expression. Darcy turned to the window, and took in the sunshine and knew Elizabeth would take some time to return, particularly if she was with her son.

"Since it looks as though your mother may be some time, I suspect we should find some way to amuse ourselves."

Henrietta and Emily looked up from their game. Emily seemed to be about to respond but closed her mouth, deciding clearly discretion was the better part of valour.

Darcy felt himself stiffening, caught in that moment where he either withdrew or engaged.

"I concede. I should find some way to amuse myself."

On request one of the servants of the house pointed Darcy in the direction of the library. The library ended up being behind the chair he was already reclining in.

A small shoddy affair, thought Darcy as he looked at the books. He didn't understand why people neglected reading and despite what his son thought Darcy did not reject novels. He just preferred other forms of reading. One of the paltry selection caught his eye; a book he'd remembered swooping on as a younger man when it was finally reprinted and no longer merely confined to the eminent collectables of his library. He withdrew it from the shelf.

He was not four pages into the book when Emily distracted him. That he was not used to either. Fitzwilliam had rarely interrupted him even as a child. It was perhaps contradictory to his nature since Darcy owned his son possessed his temper. But he managed to contain his bursting into rooms to times when Darcy was not that occupied.

"Mr Darcy, what are you reading?" She looked interested and Darcy wished he had picked one of the lighter books upon the shelf, the one he was reading was inappropriate.

"A very serious tome," he replied.

Emily craned her head. "Le Morte D'Arthur?" He could see her translating in her head. "That is not a very happy subject."

Darcy smiled. "Well, it has its moments."

"Who is Arthur?"

Darcy flicked his attention to Henrietta, "A king."

"Is he handsome?"

Darcy had never wondered whether King Arthur and his knights had been attractive. Of course they had had every other attractive quality, some of them in abundance to the point they became faults.

"I expect he is, Hetty; Kings have to be handsome, it's a rule."

Darcy was glad Emily had answered his question for him although he rather thought that was princes and he took it for granted from Emily's assertion she had never seen any of their royal family.

"Then will you not read some of it to us?"

"Well I am not sure Arthur and his knights would interest you..."

"Oh, that King Arthur," said Emily, she turned her attention back to the game on the floor, but seemed to have a sudden thought. "Mama used to tell us the story of Tom Thumb, is that one of the tales?"

"Do tell us a story."

Darcy was not entirely sure any of Mallory's stories were suitable for young ladies…or well young men, either now that he thought about it. Of course he was never one to subscribe to the idea of literature rotting the mind, but these were not his daughters.

But they looked quite interested and Darcy felt something stirring in his chest. He'd always wanted more children which was somewhat ironic since had not known what to do with the child he had, but he had always wanted a sea of small faces looking back at him as he read by the fire. One rather intense face had rather unnerved him. Although looking down at his current audience, two intense faces did not seem to improve the situation. It was clearly one of those situations that was better in fantasy than in reality.

He cleared his throat, "Well I warn you both I am out of practice." He'd managed to avoid being made to continue reading after Fitzwilliam's precipitous exit from Elizabeth's dinner party.

"Your son reads beautifully, sir," said Henrietta, suddenly looking quite coy, "I am quite sure you do as well.'

Bolstered by her confidence in him Darcy began to read, although looking at the paragraph before him perhaps it would be best to skip certain bits. He had confidence in that talent – at least the ability to summarise detail allowing certain ways of the world to be passed over with the lightest of touches.

Elizabeth was surprised that no one was anxiously awaiting their arrival. There was no Fitzwilliam standing in the doorway or the front gate like she expected; there was not even a twitch of the curtains to betray a watcher.

Something inside of Elizabeth froze, was the stillness because an alarm had been raised for her? Her joy at being able to explore the district abated. She could not enjoy what she had done if she had caused untold worry and alarm in others. It had not been so long since she had been widowed, she should remember what it was like to have someone – her other half – who would worry about her safety. Even if Fitzwilliam did not exist then her children would always fret about her, and that was not their job, that was hers.

It took her a moment to realise that her companion was holding out a helping hand. She knew a sign of reconciliation if it was presented to her, so she took it and bestowed a smile on him. He was a good man, like his father, riddled with faults but perfection was overrated.

"I think we must have worried them." She said 'we' but Fitzwilliam would not have known of his sons arrival.

"Or perhaps, if they are unwell, they have gone to bed."

Elizabeth stripped off her gloves and bonnet as she strode towards the cottage, letting Will – that name turned over in her mind and she found it as acceptable now as she did on the hillside – deal with the carriage.

She abandoned her pelisse, gloves and bonnet in the hall and pushed open the door to the sitting room. No candles had been lit and the fire was down to glowing embers, but the room was comfortably warm. It took her a moment for her eyes to adjust to the semi-darkness and what she saw made her feel relieved.

Fitzwilliam was sprawled in a chair near the fire, a book forgotten on his lap and another lying near the chair as if it had dropped from his outflung hand as sleep overtook him. Emily was curled up in a nearby chair, her head propped up on her hands, if her eyes were closed Elizabeth would presume she was waiting to hang upon Fitzwilliam's words. Henrietta was in the space between the two chairs, her head resting against Fitzwilliam's chair.

The scene was a domestic tableau in perfection. Painfully domestic thought Elizabeth almost wildly. She had thought that such moments were past her. She had realised her own moments of contentment were not past her, almost the moment she had met Fitzwilliam Darcy again, but she had not thought that everything could be whole again. Of course there were pieces missing, some permanently.

She moved across the room, and picked up the book from the floor, a volume of poetry that she had meant to read some years before when it had been published but had never quite found the time. It was strange how life interceded and prevented what you had thought you would never be able to live without. She replaced that volume and the other to their rightful place and then wondered how to rouse the girls.

As contented as they looked, they would not feel so in the morning after sleeping in such uncomfortable poses.

Will appeared in the doorway; he took in the scene himself, and Elizabeth standing amongst the sleeping figures with her hands on her hips. If ever there was a time that Elizabeth wished she could read minds it was now. Will turned to leave, and Elizabeth quietly called after him.

"I shall put the girls to bed, if you shall endeavour to deal with your father." The look on his face made Elizabeth laugh. "It surely is not an insurmountable task?"

"You have never woken my father. I shall ask you again later."

Elizabeth flushed at the implication. He had surely meant to made her colour but she did not think he had meant it maliciously.

Emily barely opened her eyes as Elizabeth steered her to bed but Henrietta yawned and stretched as her head hit the pillow.

"Mama, why cannot we have knights and jousting? It is ever so romantic."

Elizabeth wondered whether Fitzwilliam realised he had more than likely opened Pandora's box where Henrietta was concerned. Perhaps he would be relieved it would distract her mind from contemporary gentlemen, that might have been his plan all along, but Elizabeth couldn't credit him with such a complex strategy.

"Things long past often seem romantic," replied Elizabeth as she tucked the covers around her daughter.

"Like you and Mr Darcy…" Henrietta might have been going to say more but her eyes closed and she was asleep once more.

Her romance with Mr Darcy could hardly compare to the stuff of legends thought Elizabeth as she closed the door to her daughters' bedroom. Now looking back, it was true that their relationship had elements of romantic fiction, but at the time it had seemed anything but romantic. Confusing. Painful. That seemed more real.

Fitzwilliam was already at the table when Elizabeth descended for breakfast the following morning.

"Elizabeth," he said, standing holding out a hand.

She moved to grasp it. "You are looking much better."

"Although I should have felt better sooner if I had known what you were planning for yesterday."

Even though his voice held no recrimination, she felt some guilt. "I believe I have not grown out of my impetuousness of my youth, sir."

The pertness of her reply made him smile. "I should not have it any other way, Elizabeth, but if you could be so kind as to spare a moment to write a short note next time. I had thought you with Davis; I was surprised to see Fitzwilliam."

"Were you really?" Elizabeth turned away to pour herself a cup of tea.

"Elizabeth, this is not a matter of not being trusting, or not believing in my son."

"Then what is it a matter of?" Elizabeth took her seat and reached for the bread.

"There are not that many situations that would lead my son to suffer the indignity of a hurried scramble across the countryside."

Elizabeth smiled, she did not think Will had spared any expense in his journey, which Fitzwilliam would doubtless learn soon enough if it turned out to have dug too much into his allowance and she knew he had had his own reasons.

"Well he suffered the indignity of being dragged around the countryside by a woman mad for vistas and panoramas, mountains and valleys, rocks and lakes … "

"I trust your appetite for such was fulfilled?" Fitzwilliam looked wistful, "I should have been …"

Elizabeth cut off what looked as though it would descend into some mis-placed self-pity. "You have not told me how your day was, with the girls, I could see with my own eyes that it quite wore you all out, but that does not tell me if it was from over-exhaustion or frustration."

Fitzwilliam's mouth curled into a smile. "It was interesting. I may have allowed too much freedom."

"I hope you are not implying that you could corrupt their minds with anything out of books."

"Books are not incorruptible, Elizabeth. Minds are not unmalleable."

"I know the truth of that more than most, Fitzwilliam, but let us not fight about the past, or about the present."

"I think our disagreeing is unavoidable; I would not have you base our relationship on a lie."

"That is not what I am asking, Fitzwilliam. I am asking to save our disagreements for when it matters. I have seen petty things ruin more than one – " Elizabeth had been about to say marriage, but she swallowed that word hard, "relationship. Let us not disagree over the expansion of my daughters' minds to include courtly love. If anything, Henrietta was far more taken with the idea of men jousting than anything else."

"And thus is why I shall never understand women."

"I believe we understand each other quite well, Fitzwilliam."

"But you are not any woman, Elizabeth."

"Your flattery does you credit, sir."

"It is not flattery," he replied swiftly and Elizabeth felt her cheeks colour.

"I must call it flattery, otherwise I might become overwhelmed."

"I should like you overwhelmed Elizabeth. I am by my feelings for you, I can only hope that it is equally felt by you."

If Elizabeth had thought a declaration would come over the bread and butter she might have worn a nicer morning gown. But she had thought Darcy would be able to control himself better, at least until the sitting room. Although perhaps he thought that too close to his last failed proposal. That they would be both thinking of the past. Elizabeth might not have, after all she held by the edict to think only of the past as if gives pleasure, but perhaps he would have. So here over the bread and butter might just be the perfect place.

She opened her mouth to reply, but the door bursting open put paid to that.

Thomas stood flustered in the doorway. "Did you know that the stage would not make detours?"

Will was clearly not far behind because a muttered phrase insulting her son's intelligence was heard.

Elizabeth laughed. At least their family was here, all together, acting as they would.

Chapter Thirty One– The End of the Prologue. . .

Posted on: 2009-02-11

Darcy straightened his cravat and looked straight in the mirror. Though he would not admit to sickness, he knew he looked better than he had done in the previous days, and that he had felt only the smallest degree of embarrassment in his condition around Elizabeth and her children.

If nothing else, this told him that Elizabeth was right; that their families joining would bring him happiness and he was certain that happiness would extend to more than himself.

Of course, if not for the interruption of Davis, a date for their marriage might have been set already. But perhaps it was for the best, a proposal over the butter? It was hardly romantic, or an auspicious beginning.

He would take Elizabeth aside and propose amongst her beloved rocks and mountains.

This seemed simple, or so he had thought when it had entered his mind after Davis' interruption and it had become his goal over the last few days. However, whenever he suggested a walk one of the children leapt at the chance to join them.

He had once managed to walk with Elizabeth a little way from the house alone, and he had seized his opportunity, only to have the accursed stable boy pop up and ask him what he thought should be done with one of the horses that had developed a limp. He had then an opportunity to continue, but Elizabeth had shooed him away to the stables, seemingly oblivious to what he had intended, or perhaps she thought the moment broken beyond repair.

Darcy had a feeling if he could but stifle his sense of pride and explicitly tell each of the young people in the household that he wished to take Elizabeth aside and ask her to become his wife that they would have eagerly helped him with his task, in the case of the girls, or stayed out of their way, in the case of the boys.

To ask for such consideration, however, felt awkward. It would be another thing to ask Kitty or Ash or the Colonel to help him arrange a private moment, but to invite his son or Elizabeth's children into their most private concerns felt too invasive. It was a failing of pride, he knew, but he found he could not overcome it.

Although he wasn't sure that hinting was any better for his self-esteem. He found that he was completely inept at hinting. He was perhaps too subtle, it was now that he needed the abilities of a woman like Mrs Bennet had been, or perhaps even his own Aunt, Lady Catherine. Women for whom language was wielded like a wooden club.

If it had been anyone but himself this morning, he would have found the attempt amusing; as it was, it was just embarrassing.

He had been in the sitting room with Emily reading and Elizabeth embroidering for company. He would have preferred not to repeat his proposal in a similar setting to the last one, even though he was almost certain this time he would not be refused, but he was becoming impatient.

He had caught Emily's eye, and tilted his head at the door. She had frowned at him, as if uncertain as to whether Darcy really meant to communicate something to her. So he had tilted his head at the door and winked at her. It could now only be obvious he was trying to silently speak to her. But she just gaped at him.

More winking and head tilting between Elizabeth and the door brought only more confusion and then amusement to her face.

"Why are you winking at me, Mr Darcy?"

Elizabeth looked up from her work at that point; Darcy almost choked at Emily's innocent question.

"Wink at you! Why would I wink at you, pray?" Darcy realised he sounded quite ridiculous. "I mean, I have something in my eye. If you would excuse me, I should see to that." Darcy strode out of the room and if the ladies laughed at him he did not hear it.

He had steeled himself for a further attempt in the afternoon when he found himself standing in a field with Davis and Elizabeth. Davis was talking of crop rotations and Elizabeth was watching him fondly.

"I think perhaps I saw some books on crop rotation in the sitting room."

"Really? They all seemed to be romantic novels," Davis poked the earth.

"I am sure it might have been some of Young's theory, maybe outdated but useful nonetheless."

Davis nodded and asked a question about Pemberley's crops.

"I believe you might find that answer in the book I saw. Perhaps we should go peruse it?" He intended to let Davis walk back to the house and take advantage of the moment alone. Except somehow they had ended up walking back to the house, and Elizabeth was left enjoying the view. Not only that, but by chance there was a book on agriculture and Darcy had spent the next hour talking turnips with Davis.

He'd escaped under the pretext of dressing for dinner and could only think it was another day wasted.

"I'd always thought it was your creed to speak to the point."

Darcy turned to see his son leaning against the doorframe, looking more relaxed than Darcy had ever seen him, and that made some undefinable emotion uncurl in his breast. But he could not change the past; one could only hope for the future.

"You certainly told me to come to the point more times than I would like to be responsible for counting."

"You will have to add to that tally, because I am dangerously close to urging you to be more direct." Although Darcy could not remember the last time he'd asked his son such a thing. Clearly the extortions as a child worked, because Fitzwilliam as an adult was direct, cuttingly direct. Except in everything but his emotions.

Fitzwilliam did not answer, so Darcy turned to him in some annoyance. "Is everyone wilfully putting obstacles in my place?"

"I wasn't aware that you had a chosen course."

"Fitzwilliam, do not play the fool."

He regretted saying it the moment he did. Fitzwilliam should not bear the brunt of his annoyance and frustration. He had suffered enough of his father's stifling emotions as a child; they had begun to forge a path anew, mending fences along the way and he wanted nothing more than to preserve that peace.

"Forgive me," Darcy clasped his son's shoulder. "My temper should not be your concern."

"It affords me amusement."

Darcy couldn't contain his snort. "I am glad to see I engender such respect in you." His tone was light because in truth his cup did runneth over, if only he could manage to propose.

Elizabeth folded her sheets down. It wasn't a task she was required to do, but she enjoyed it, straightening the beds. Another thing that if someone had told her at twenty about she would laughed herself sick at.

"Mama!"

Elizabeth turned just as Emily burst through the door.

"Are you acquainted with the notion of knocking?"

Emily rolled her eyes and knocked on the door.

"Not quite what I meant, but I shall accept it. What can I do for you, Miss Emily?"

"Mr Darcy - not your Mr Darcy - said it was such a nice morning, we should go for a walk."

Elizabeth could only think that was very thoughtful, perhaps even brave of him.

"Shall you come, Mama?"

"I rarely say no to a walk," particularly not one organised by a boy who was so opposed to everything not weeks ago.

Emily gave a radiant smile and ran down the cottages stairs, shouting to (presumably) Will and her brother that Elizabeth would be coming with them.

She took only a moment to make sure nothing was out of place in her room before descending the stairs herself.

If she expected a happy little party at the bottom of the stairs, she did not betray her surprise. Will looked more sullen than she had seen him in some time, Thomas was looking thoughtfully at the other boy, Emily looked confused and betrayed, only Henrietta looked eager.

"Shall we not make a start?"

"I am afraid, madam, there has been an error: you are not invited."

At this insult to their mother, Emily decided to stalk out of the cottage. It was not unexpected; she had reached an age where she preferred not to have her upsets publicly displayed. Henrietta swept after her after glaring at Will. That boy also took himself off with Thomas trailing at his heels.

Before Elizabeth could comprehend quite what had just happened, Darcy, her Fitzwilliam, having just completed his breakfast, strode out into the hallway.

"Elizabeth!"

"Fitzwilliam," she greeted him as enthusiastically as he had greeted her; she wondered whether she should mention his son's behaviour.

"Are we alone?"

Elizabeth tucked her head out of his embrace and looked up at him. "I believe we are, sir. I cannot say for how long this may last, and I should not like to expose my children to such immoral behaviour in the hallway."

Last time she had made such a comment, Fitzwilliam had reacted quite differently, now he just smiled. "It perhaps would not be so immoral, if I managed to ask you a question I have been trying to ask you for some days."

Elizabeth smiled; she had noticed his distraction she had just not realised it was distraction in active pursuit of a goal. She had thought he was studying for his words of four syllables or more.

"I am immensely grateful for whoever conspired to leave us to ourselves, even for just this moment."

"I believe your thanks should be directed towards your son," and she wondered about that. It would so like a Darcy, so like that particular Darcy, when faced with his plan unfolding not as expected to react in such a curt manner.

"Remind me to offer him my thanks."

"But what," she teased, "do you have to be thankful for?"

"Hopefully, a positive answer to my question?"

"But what is that question?"

"I phrased it so badly the last time I attempted it with you; I am quite terrified to attempt it again."

"It was phrased well enough, sir, it was the surrounding conversation that quite sunk you."

"Then I shall attempt it once more. My dearest, loveliest, Elizabeth …"

"I do not believe that is how you started."

"Then I should have. I must tell you how ardently I admire and love you. "

"You have not struggled? Your feelings have not been repressed?"

"I cannot believe you remember my word. How I wish you did not!"

"But they were very pretty words; we only did not know each other well enough to understand their import."

"Well my affections, wishes and hopes are unchanged…"

"I hope you shall not ask me whether my feelings have changed."

"Indeed, I should not dare. But I will ask if you will relieve my suffering and consent to be my wife."

"Yes, Fitzwilliam, I shall, and …" she was about to add, 'we shall be happy'. But she could not promise that. She knew too well how easily it was to have happiness snatched away from one. But they would try and that would be enough. "I love you."

Their mutual happiness was only short-lived, although it would be more proper to say that the happiness that could only be expressed between themselves was short-lived.

They might have divested themselves of their children, but they had forgotten the servants.

Elizabeth laughed at the flustered expression that overtook the maid's and Fitzwilliam's faces.

Sally mumbled her apologies and ducked her head as she hurried past them to the kitchen stairs.

"Now, I am very glad that I am an engaged woman, Fitzwilliam."

Thomas pushed the tree branch out of his way as he attempted to follow Darcy.

He thought he understood the other boy, but then he did not. Although he could not expect that any effort on Darcy's part would last, it would come in drips. Thomas knew this because that is how he felt, although he was far better – although that was not difficult – at hiding his apathy. Mostly because he had said his piece to his mother, several times, and it was now no longer his concern.

Not that Thomas had stopped caring, but that he could not influence his mother any more than he had; she had to decide what best made her happy and her happiness was all that Thomas really wanted.

Darcy thought only of his own happiness, which made Thomas think well of himself until he wondered if his contented and life filled with love and security meant he was not able to judge. It was easy to be concerned with others' happiness if one had only ever felt happiness. Thomas disregarded those moments of extreme pain, such as his father's death; they were natural moments of melancholy.

"Wait up!"

"Did it occur to you that I do not wish for company?" There was a pause. "Particularly not your company."

"You wanted it before." Darcy did not respond but at least he stopped striding. Thomas felt a glimmer of triumph. "I knew that it was your attempt at being magnanimous."

"It was hardly magnanimous."

"It would have been if you …"

"I meant I was not intending to be selfless. It was becoming tedious."

Thomas did not ask to what Darcy referred; Thomas agreed with him. Although if Darcy had pointed out that Thomas had been one of the obstacles he sought to remove, Thomas would have laughed. He had not interfered in any way. Mr Darcy was merely slow in coming to the point.

Not that Thomas thought this was because of a lack of affection and respect for his mother; rather it sprung from the Darcy need for perfection.

Thomas took a welcome seat on a tree stump. "I would have never thought, stepping into the grounds of Oxford, that in the future I'd be sitting in the middle of the Lake District talking to my future brother."

Darcy flinched at that. "You will wish to spend more of your time on your own estate." It was more of a command than a statement.

That was at least partially true. While he could trust the Squire and his watchful eye, there was a patch of earth, a farm with tenants, and a house that belonged to him. But Thomas would not be swayed from his thoughts. "I gained a whole family. I asked my mother a question and gained a whole family."

Darcy shot him a look that communicated his thoughts about Thomas' intelligence.

But Thomas did not care. He thought he knew how changeable life was when one afternoon he had been lounging on the window seat and he'd seen a riderless horse bolt into their stables. Not just any horse, but his father's horse. He remembered stiffening and having a sense of unease, but it had not been fear or worry, not then. Many a time had a riderless horse returned to the stables. But usually it had been his; his father had been a bruising rider who would never part with the reins. He expected to see his father limping into the yard grimacing and in pain. That was the normal course of events. The male servants had gone looking, probably more to do something different than their normal duties than actual worry and Thomas had thought no more about it until something once again caught his eye.

They had carried his father into the yard, and even from the house Thomas knew he was dead. He had frozen, part of himself willing the other part to race to ensure his mother did not see, but he had been too late, a heart rendering scream as his mother stumbled down the steps.

The life he knew had disappeared that day, but equally he could not have imagined the one that sprung up in its place. The unravelling of a family's secrets and a daughter's grief had brought the pieces of a puzzle, long abandoned, back together.

Without warning, Darcy had stalked back to the house and Thomas had dutifully followed.

"Thomas! You must come inside!" Emily was half out the sitting room window and was in danger of falling into the bushes.

"Yes! They will not speak to us unless we are all here!" Henrietta elbowed her way into view.

Thomas headed straight for the cottage and in the hallway managed to grab Darcy's arm to make sure he didn't wander off. It would be like him to presume that 'all' did not mean him. But it did, and it always would from now on, Thomas suspected.

"They are here!"

"I could not have foreseen such excitement!" said their mother, clearly amused.

Thomas thought it was obvious what was about to be announced and that the girls' eagerness was unnecessary but he supposed they wished to talk about his mother's dress or such like. Things that interested Thomas little, and the Darcy men none.

"I am pleased to say," said Mr Darcy clearing his throat, "that I have asked …"
there was a pause before an encouraging nod from his mother spurred him onwards, "Elizabeth to …"

"Elope to Spain."

The girls' crestfallen face was quite possibly worth the wait thought Thomas, but Mr Darcy coughed.

"I have asked Elizabeth to marry me, and she had accepted."

Thomas was not sure what sort of reaction was necessary but the girls' reaction should be enough for the four of them. Thomas settled for shaking Mr Darcy's hand and giving his mother a swift hug.

"Where shall you marry? At our home? At Pemberley? In London?" asked Emily.

"What shall you wear? You must have Madame Fancot make you a dress and wear ostrich feathers. Or maybe you should have jewels in your hair, I am sure the Darcy family has a tiara. It would be very matronly," gushed Henrietta.

"Shall you travel, sir?" asked Thomas, thinking that he should at least try to draw Mr Darcy into the conversation. "Now that my mother has seen the Lake District, I know not where else she would like to go."

"Wherever shall you start," added Darcy sardonically.

Thomas watched his mother smile widely, and Thomas was reminded of his childhood when his mother was perfect and when, as far as he was concerned, all was right in the world if she smiled. "Why, Will, we shall start where everyone should start. The beginning."

Epilogue – The Start

Elizabeth married her Darcy in a small ceremony with close friends and family. It was not the happiest day of her life, but with three children and the happiness of her former life, it had understandable competition. But it felt like completion. The first time in a very long time that Elizabeth had stood with her whole family … almost her whole family but Elizabeth tried not to think about that. Jane, Mary and Kitty sat behind her, watching her pledge her love to Fitzwilliam and her father sat in his bath chair trying not to doze off during the service.

Pemberley was as beautiful and as well situated as Elizabeth could remember and being mistress of it and its surrounds was not as frightening as she once imagined. The household welcomed her, and the surrounding gentry seemed happy that a mistress of Pemberley had come to resurrect some of the old ways and to breathe life back into the house and the neighbourhood. Elizabeth privately laughed at some of the young ladies' enthusiasm. Despite being warned by Kitty that those same young ladies had had hopes of being Mrs Darcy it seemed they would be placated with balls and parties.

Though it was not surprising as Pemberley had not had a mistress since Amelia, and before her all too brief tenure, there had been another long period where Pemberley was desolate of female stewardship. Of course Georgiana and Mrs Reynolds filled the role, but neither could do so completely due to age and station.

Embracing her role, Elizabeth did not forget her old home; marrying Darcy did not stop her, and him, visiting Davis Lodge and all her old friends. Before the wedding, Isabella had, of course, interrogated Fitzwilliam minutely. She had been worried for a moment that Fitzwilliam would not pass Isabella's barely concealed test. Not for Fitzwilliam's sake but for the sake of peace and comfort. Isabella might frustrate Elizabeth, but she was Henry's sister and had been a source of support for many years, particularly that hard year after Henry's death.

Fitzwilliam had sensed Isabella's importance and made an effort with her, not that he had to try particularly hard; Isabella had a good heart and wanted her sister-in-law to be happy. The fact Fitzwilliam wanted nothing but Elizabeth's happiness added to his good looks and wealth made it almost impossible for Isabella not to approve.

The rest of the village had been more interested in gossip. It was then that Elizabeth had understood Kitty when she had said that being happy and love removed the sting of whisperings but it didn't make you deaf, blind and dumb. But Elizabeth knew she had not spent her life pining for Fitzwilliam Darcy, and he knew that. Everyone who was important to her knew that, so Elizabeth was happy to make sport for her neighbours.

The knowing glances were more prevalent in Longbourn, but that was to be expected. Elizabeth's father had teased her about her dislike of Darcy but then had kissed her and said he only wanted her to be happy, which she was.

Georgiana Darcy, as was, sent her a brother an eight page letter crossed densely, expressing her perfect happiness with her brother's choice, and her hopes for their future as sisters. It was hardly the Georgiana Elizabeth remembered, the quiet reserved young woman. She wondered if it was time, or better knowledge that had brought this side of her to Elizabeth's view. Either way, she was a source of knowledge for Elizabeth about Pemberley, about Fitzwilliam's family and even about Fitzwilliam himself.

Elizabeth's own sisters were no less enthusiastic. Kitty had beamed and immediately wanted to throw a ball; Jane had saved her enthusiasm for when she could hug her sister close. Mary contained herself to a densely written letter that seemed to approve of Elizabeth's choice if she had to give up her newly found freedom as a single woman – the only kind of single woman that society supported and even then only minutely – Elizabeth felt the pamphlets were only a wedding trip away.

In all Elizabeth was content. She was loved by a good and honourable man and she loved him in return. In that regard she had been blessed twice in her life. She had three beautiful children whom she loved more than anything else in the world, and a step-son who could be relied upon not to spare her feelings when it was necessary (and sometimes when it wasn't) for whom her love was important, not expected. Her father spent the last years of his life at Pemberley, lured their by the library and captive grandchildren to read to him (although Elizabeth was amused to note, when Will was at home it was he who would argue with her father in the library about books and poetry, and she had never seen her father quite so happy. He had not been blessed with cynical grandchildren; the addition of Fitzwilliam Darcy junior to his life at such an advanced age brought him nothing but joy.)

Her sisters visited with their children and husbands and sometimes without, and her heart would overflow when Elizabeth had to figure out whether she could accommodate all of her guests without, for instance, banishing her son from his own room.

Of course there were those empty spaces; Henry was not with them, although his presence would have meant the domestic and familiar happiness would not have looked the same. Her mother was an absent figure, but Elizabeth found herself scolding her children and stopping in shock when she realised who she sounded like, and she supposed her mother was not truly gone when it only took a moment and closed eyes for Elizabeth to envision her reaction to her marriage to Mr Darcy of Derbyshire. Lydia too was a gap that no one could erase. But burdens and sorrow made joy more profound.

In a village in Scotland, a lady past her youth was passed a copy of a London paper. She did not often read the paper; her husband would read from it excerpts he thought might interest her, or her mother-in-law would hand wave about the dubious morality of townsfolk as she told her daughter-in-law about the latest scandals in Edinburgh.

But this day one of the ladies of the village had brought the newspaper and she'd opened it. The news was gloomy, as news often was, and she skimmed past it. The announcements page was always of more interest, even when it was about people she had no knowledge of. She liked to speculate about the lives behind the print. A notice caught her eye:

FITZWILLIAM - DAVIS: Lately, by licence, at Mertyon, Hertfordshire by the Rev. H.P Morgan, Fitzwilliam Darcy, Esq. of Pemberley, Derbyshire to Elizabeth Davis, daughter of Thomas Bennet Esq of Longbourn, Hertfordshire.

Some other lady might sigh at the announcement and feel regret that even with such an announcement she still had to speculate. But this lady felt no such regret, merely happiness at the announcement. She put aside the paper and smiled. Perhaps she was merely glad that her choices had not spoiled her sisters'.

***THE END***