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

Charlotte and Mr. Collins, Charlotte’s parents, and one or two representatives of the Meryton community were also there. It was not a large group, but a group that sincerely mourned the passing of a member from their small circle.

If anyone had asked her opinion, however, Elizabeth would have suggested that there was one too many mourners for her liking at the funeral. A very uninterested Caroline Bingley was spied yawning in the background, shivering and rolling her eyes at the Reverend Collins’s heavenly words. Jane had been delivered safely of a baby girl a few weeks prior to her mother’s passing, so Caroline and her sister and brother-in-law, Mr. and Mrs. Hurst, were already residing at Netherfield Hall, Charles and Jane’s leased manor house situated a few miles from Mr. and Mrs. Bennet’s home.

“We’ll return to your father’s house and have a short rest.” Darcy cupped his wife’s elbow, steering her in the direction of Longbourn and to their room after the early morning burial with its damp air. “I’ll have them get a nice warm fire going for you. We’ve plenty of time before the luncheon at Netherfield.” They were staying in her old bedroom, the one she had at one time happily shared with her older sister. It was a charming reflection of both Jane’s and Lizzy’s distinct personalities—flowery wallpaper, chair flounces and pink bows alongside books, a writing desk, walking boots and stick. The drizzle of rain had thankfully stopped, leaving behind only the clouds and gloom. Lizzy nodded to her husband, and so the couple made their excuses and returned for a nap before venturing to Jane and Charles’s home.

Relieved of her gown and ankle-length pantalets, Elizabeth scooted onto the bed and snuggled into the pillows feeling warm and cozy, her stomach finally settling down from its daily pilgrimage upward. It was such a relief knowing that she could now relax, but not so her wonderful husband. Her exhaustion, her health, her pregnancy, all were his now constant concern, often causing him sleepless nights.

As she sipped her hot chocolate, she prattled on to him about the morning service and how kind everyone had been and about the pretty flowers. However, her speech became quieter and her words stilled completely the moment he began undressing for bed. He possessed a magnificent figure, the viewing of which she never tired, and his regimented routine always fascinated her. It rarely varied.

He first loosened his neck scarf and waistcoat, then sat erectly upon a chair to remove his boots. Next he stood and unbuttoned his shirt and cuffs, careful as always to place any jewelry on the nightstand beside the bed. His waistcoat, scarf, and shirt were next removed in that order, folded and draped with the utmost care across the back of his chair. After unbuttoning his breeches, he sat at the edge of the bed and yanked them off, folded them, and laid them neatly across her old dresser.

“Oh, bravo.” She clapped, grinning impishly.

He turned and arched his eyebrow at her.

“You zany scamp—you have unhinged me with your recklessness.”

His eyebrow went somehow higher.

“You unbuttoned your pants before you sat on the edge of the bed, and not after, as is your usual order. Such extreme behavior—whatever possessed you to such flights of abandon?”

“Are you quite finished?” His lips twitched with humor as he lowered himself back onto the bed and let out a heartfelt sigh. “Now please be quiet. You are exhausted and need your sleep. All I ask is one uninterrupted hour, Elizabeth.”

“Did you see who was at the grave site?”

He groaned.

She was snuggling farther down into the covers while motioning toward her aching back, so he slipped his hand down within her chemise and kneaded and rubbed until her tense muscles began to relax, the warmth and firmness of the back rub quickly beginning to loosen all the anxiety of the sad morning. Giving her shoulder a quick kiss when he finished, he pulled his wife’s backside against him, and they then easily fell into their normal spooning position from home, fingers intertwined together, arms laced, and hugs secured.

“Did you hear what I asked you?”

“Yessss.” He sighed, no immediate sleep in sight. “I imagine you are speaking of Lady Catherine and Fitzwilliam. I saw them only briefly, and they were gone before I could approach.” In truth, he felt very guilty that he had not contacted her directly during her illness, only receiving reports from Fitzwilliam and her doctors. The sight of her there today shamed him and brought to the forefront of his mind the folly of holding this grudge. Life was short, he was learning, and never to be taken for granted.

“She looked very pale and fragile, did she not?”

“Yes, she did.” She could feel him shift uneasily. “I’m not that surprised that she was there, really,” he said quietly. “In some fuzzy area of her brain she has accepted that you are part of her family, and family obligations are paramount to her.”

They were silent for a moment. He pulled another cover over them.

“Did you remove your stockings?”

“Elizabeth, I beg of you to be quiet.”

She was, for a moment.

“If you don’t remove them, your feet will become very warm, and then you shall have nightmares. And your boots will smell.”

His teeth ground for an instant, but he contained himself. “I never have nightmares—largely due to the fact that I seldom sleep anymore. And my boots do not smell.”

They were silent. He suddenly sat up and removed his stockings, again placing them with the utmost precision atop her dresser.

He’d make a fine valet, she thought briefly. Best not to voice that opinion out loud.

They were silent.

“Did you see Caroline Bingley?”

Darcy fought back an unpleasant curse. He was learning that infinite patience needed to walk hand in hand with marriage. “Yes, dear, I did. Will you be all right with Caroline there today?” he whispered.

“Yes, of course.” It was so quiet in their little room. “The real question is, will you?”

Gently he turned her chin, tilting her head back toward him.

“Elizabeth, let sleeping dogs lie.”

She smiled and nodded, kissing his mouth tenderly, but her heart and her newfound insecurities were fighting a silent battle with logic. She gave out a noncommittal “mm-hmm.”

Darcy sighed. This is going to be a long week.

The prior evening, Fitzwilliam had dreaded another lecture from Aunt Catherine. For two hours, she had vacillated between arguments for going to the funeral to pay her respects, or for not going and continuing the family conflict. In the end, as he knew it would, family duty won out over personal pride, and her carriage took them the long thirty miles to Meryton for the funeral, returning them back to Rosings almost immediately afterward.

Upon their arrival back to Rosings Park, Fitzwilliam barricaded himself within the business office with orders to all who would listen that he was not to be disturbed, unwilling to admit the fact that he was thoroughly mystified by his own accounting methods of a previous visit. He pulled at his hair and muttered vile obscenities, searching through what seemed like hundreds of receipts and reports and tenant requests. Everything looked the same, and nothing added up or made any sense.

Lady Catherine’s daughter, Anne, was in her bedroom suite, fearful that somehow a remnant of the illness that had felled Mrs. Bennet would return doggedly attached to her mother or cousin. She breathed into a boiling pot of clove-and-basil ointment, clutching a towel around her head, allowing only her paid companion to accompany her.

So it was that Lady Catherine sat alone that evening, her memories agitated, her ire poking the embers of her thoughts into flames as if bringing a dimming hearth fire to life on a winter morning.

It is insupportable…that he should look so well, never missed me at all, the ingrate! Where is the loyalty among the young these days? He’s even gained a little weight! Dread flooded her confused brain . Or, perhaps that is water retention. Oh no, the poor dear is retaining water. Oh, dear God, he probably has developed serious heart ailments of which he is not even aware!

Fitzwilliam burst into the room. “Do we grow peas?!”

She was startled, her thoughts still agitated. Already mourning the passing of her beloved Darcy, she stared at him several moments before she could respond. “What… yes, I believe we have lentils, peas, and barley on some farms to the north.” She gulped back the sense of foreboding that always arose when Fitzwilliam attempted anything agricultural. “Why do you ask?”

“Nothing… nothing…” He began to close the door then stopped, staring intently back at her, nearly obscured within the deep shadows of the doorframe. “By the by, have you ever heard of gray mold?” She could see he was clutching a written report her estate manager had prepared shortly before the accident that had incapacitated him for nearly eight months. She let out a whimper.

The day following the funeral an exceedingly kind note was delivered from Elizabeth to Rosings Park. Among many pleasantries and concerns expressed for her health, Elizabeth thanked Lady Catherine for attending the funeral and expressed her sincere hope that they would see her again soon.

Very courteous, very proper, Lady Catherine thought to herself, so pleased was she that her heart began to thump again, the cavernous labyrinth of her rather bizarre mind beginning to expand and contract with plans and machinations.