Karen Wasylowski - Darcy and Fitzwilliam: A Tale of a Gentleman and an Officer

He growled, slamming his hand down on the desk in exasperation.

Crossing to his side Catherine began to rummage wildly through a disordered pile of receipts from the desk. “Are you still trying to do those books?” she demanded incredulously.

“I am not altogether convinced that your estate manager had an accident.” He snatched the receipts back. “He was more than likely taking the easy out and attempting suicide.”

“Don’t be ridiculous! I would never allow him to commit suicide before he finished the books! You must be mad.” She promptly walked around to the front of the desk.

“We are going to visit Longbourn tomorrow morning. Please arrange for the carriage to be ready at nine.”

Fitzwilliam grimaced and rubbed his hand raggedly over his face, slouching farther into the chair. She had a scrawny old neck that he could break like a twig. Tossing his pen onto the desk, he cast a malevolent look at her.

“Gracious, toughen up, will you? Why, when I was your age, I was a wife and a mother and the most brilliant hostess in all of London. I could throw a party for three hundred, go without sleep for days on end, and yet be ready at a moment’s notice for Lord Louis’s political meetings. I will have you know, young man, that in those long ago days, my opinion was greatly regarded in the highest circles of government.”

“Excellent,” he said as he handed her the ledger and walked from the room. “Then you finish up—I’m going to bed.”

***

Late the following morning, Elizabeth and Jane were resting in their mother’s room, looking through some of her keepsakes. To Elizabeth’s amusement, there was little to be found among them of her childhood or, for that matter, the childhood of any of her sisters, but Jane’s life was on display from birth until her marriage. Locks of hair, notes on her progress, dance cards from assemblies.

“I seem to have been somehow misplaced in here”—she smiled and indicated the albums—“along with my poor sisters, save but one.”

Jane was humming a lullaby as she sat in her rocker, nursing her baby. “I was the first born, Lizzy. Firstborns are always fussed over more.”

“I am not offended, Jane. I only wish I could have had the kind of closeness with my mother that you enjoyed.”

“I truly think she would have wanted that, too, but then you were always much closer to Father, weren’t you? You and Father were both cleverer than the rest of us. I imagine it probably intimidated her.”

Lizzy leaned over to stroke the head of the baby as it nursed, then touched her own stomach absently. Darcy and she had decided that no one would be told of her pregnancy until they were reasonably certain that it would be successful.

They sat in silence for several minutes, Lizzy poring over old letters and Jane staring contentedly out the window.

“Lizzy?”

“Yes, dearest?”

“I noticed at luncheon yesterday that you avoided Caroline but spoke with Mr. and Mrs. Hurst. Do you still feel a strained relationship with Charles’s sister?”

Lizzy broiled inside at the very thought of that wanton but schooled her appearance to appear complacent. It was neither the time nor place to have her talk with Jane about Caroline.

“I am sorry if in any way I offended you or Charles. It was not my intention. I was only lost in my own thoughts.”

“I don’t think anyone noticed.” Jane placed her baby across her shoulder to rub its back. A small burp, one of a mother’s greatest rewards, quickly followed. She settled the child at her other breast. “Darcy was attentive to her, kind and thoughtful as always, so I don’t think she noticed anything untoward.”

Lizzy froze. “Was Darcy speaking with her? I hadn’t realized.” She spoke evenly as she refolded the letters. At that moment, a terrified-looking serving girl knocked on the door. With a pale face and a trembling voice, she whispered that there were visitors downstairs.

Since purchasing his commission in the spring of 1806, Colonel Richard Fitzwilliam had been involved in the worst battles of the Peninsular War, from the Battle of Vimeiro in 1808 through Coruna, Porto, Talevera, counter attacks at Fuentes de Onoro, Ciudad Rodrigo, pushing eastward to Salamanca, Vitoria, Maya, and into France. He had suffered through unthinkable deprivations, unbearable heat and mind-numbing cold, sloshed through mud and ice storms, fought savagely amid the slaughter and brutality of men driven insane with hatred and revenge.

And yet… all these seemed preferable to sitting across from his aunt Catherine for the two-and-one-half-hour carriage ride from Rosings Park to Lizzy’s family home, Longbourn. If she poked his knee one more time with that bony finger of hers, she would be retracting a bloody stump.

“Cut line, Catherine!” he finally hissed.

“I beg your pardon! I realize I am old, Fitzwilliam, and feeble…” He snorted his opinion of that. “… and feeble,” she yelled, indicating with a circle of her finger her heart area, “but I do believe that as matriarch of this family I have a right, nay, a certain obligation to point out the error of your excesses. Never mind that you are involved in illicit relationships with opera dancers and shop girls. Never mind that you cuckold titled members of the aristocracy…” Suddenly she halted midscreech, looking confused.

“Well, please don’t stop there, Aunt. That cannot be the end of your tirade, surely. We have another hour yet to go sealed within this tomb of horrors, and you have not even begun to mention my excessive drinking, my indifference to my heritage, or my disloyalty to Somerfield House.”

“Yes!! Oh, thank you, Richard, thank you. I knew there was something I had forgotten!” She laughed. “La, my mind sometimes…”

Fitzwilliam moaned.

The demon reentered her body. “You do realize that idiot brother of yours has yet to marry and produce an heir. Of course, I have tried to reason with him, but he’s nonsensical, prancing about with those artist friends of his. You have obligations, young man, to your family, and yes, to your heritage. Heaven knows what you see in these loose women…” She flung up her hand. “Do not even dare to speak of it to me. I can interpret an eyebrow waggle when I see one! Only destruction and misfortune can come from this behavior. There is no future with harlots, as well you know. You are behaving like the very worst rakehell of Carlton House.”

“Forgive me, but is there a very best type of rakehell?”

“This amuses you? If your sainted mother were alive today, this would kill her. Your health is failing you, Richard. Your career will be affected. I demand that you settle down and marry immediately. Why can you not select from the daughters of the many excellent families that are within our circle? My goodness, Pamela Tyson Briggs must be nearly twenty years old and has the hips of a good breeder.”

“She has the hips of a good rhinoceros,” he mumbled.

And the discussion began its inevitable spiral downward after that.

***

The carriage arrived at Longbourn at nearly half past noon. It was a vastly improved Longbourn from when Lady Catherine had last visited, that horrible day when she confronted Elizabeth, shouting out her views on the unsuitability of any sort of relationship between the poor country girl and Darcy.

Both Darcy and Bingley had together refurbished and beautified the old household of their in-laws. The garden was once again fine-looking, the house itself painted, the roof repaired, the drainage problem that had flooded the front yard and back was easily solved by Darcy, and the inside saw new wallpaper, sofas, tables, and draperies courtesy of Bingley.

It was an elegant little manor house that now stood before Catherine as Fitzwilliam handed her down from the carriage and they began to walk up the drive.

“Well, it seems quite an unexceptional home,” she offered kindly. “Much better than I remembered.” Perhaps the girl was not as much beneath her nephew as she had believed. Guiding her by the elbow, Fitzwilliam proceeded to lead her down a lovely little walkway through the front flower garden, a path that was lined by a beautiful low box hedge. It was a lovely day, the quiet interrupted only by the chirping of the blackbirds, the robins, the Tits—Blue, Great and Coal.

When they reached the first of four stepping stones that led to the main front veranda, a strange sort of keening noise began, faintly at first, growing louder and nearer in proximity. They stopped, quizzically looking first at each other and then about them. The sound grew more strident.

It was then that a medium-sized porker appeared from around the back of the house, streaking across their path and squealing at an ear-deafening pitch, followed closely by a barefoot, unkempt serving boy wielding a butcher knife and swearing like a drunken sailor. Catherine gripped Fitzwilliam’s arm and tightly closed her eyes.

They stood frozen for several moments. “Steady on, old girl.” Fitzwilliam struggled valiantly against the urge to laugh.

Catherine stared straight before her and swallowed. “Richard, really… you know how… Richard, I dislike… cant terms… such as ‘old girl’… Was that a pig?!” she finally spit out.

His chin hit his chest as he bit his upper lip. It was a while before he could speak. “Actually, I believe that was dinner.”

She winced and paled.

“Remember, dearest, in warfare it is always best to choose your battles.” He squeezed her elbow gently. “Shall we proceed?”

She shut her eyes again and nodded.

***

Compassion replaced the apprehension that had nearly paralyzed Lizzy after sending the serving girl to find Darcy. There was true anxiety in the face and mannerisms of the proud woman who stood before her, and Lizzy curtseyed respectfully to her new aunt. “Lady Catherine, I cannot tell you how happy we are that you are here.”

Catherine nodded, nervously shifting her feet. “I am very sorry for your loss, Elizabeth. Please accept my condolences to you and to your family.” Her voice wavered only once, and she cleared her throat, pulling fretfully at her gloves before continuing. “It was never your mother’s fault, nor her wish, I am sure, that her garden is so small.” Fitzwilliam turned his head to the side, coughing once to cover his bark of laughter.

“That is very kind of you to say, Lady Catherine.” Lizzy motioned for them to be seated. “Your condolences are dearly appreciated.”

“It’s Aunt Catherine, now, Elizabeth.” Catherine bestowed upon her a brief, strained smile that quickly faded. She stared at the ceiling, perhaps hoping to discover written there some mutually enjoyable topic of conversation. Finding nothing, she sighed.

“It’s good to see you also, Richard, dear friend. How are you able to be away from Paris at this time?”

“I am on the diplomatic circuit, Elizabeth. I have been shuttling between London and Paris for several weeks now.”

At that moment, Darcy entered the room. “Your ladyship,” he said quietly as he walked toward his aunt and bowed, taking both her hands to kiss. Her eyes were on Darcy and him alone now. She fought back a warm smile that would have betrayed her joy, but her eyes grew moist with emotion.

“You look very well, Darcy, indecently so. Marriage certainly agrees with you. How is your heart?” She poked her finger into his hand to see if an indentation remained which would expose his water retention. There was none. She nodded in relief and smiled.

“My heart is quite well, Aunt Catherine. Thank you.” He took a step toward Fitzwilliam, and they both shrugged at each other before pulling up their chairs.

***

The four sat down and made small talk for a while, Elizabeth surprised that her reaction to Lady Catherine was so different from their initial meeting. Perhaps living with Darcy has made me more compassionate. A strong feeling of love for this new family of hers welled up within her.

Like Darcy, Catherine was accustomed to a world where people jumped when she spoke, where people never entertained the thought of voicing an opinion contrary to hers. The Darcys and the de Bourghs and, for that matter, the Fitzwilliams, all took for granted their world of privilege, would know no reaction to their existence other than acquiescence to whatever they wished.

Experiencing a surge of empathy for Catherine, Lizzy noted the way the older woman looked at Darcy, all the love of a mother toward her own son. In the end, it turned out they had something very important in common after all—they both loved him dearly. Absently, Lizzy placed a hand on her stomach. She must have had a smile on her face, because she noticed Catherine was looking straight at her.