Damn that Darcy!

*   *   *

Buford sat moodily in the public rooms of his lodgings, nursing a before-dinner glass of wine. He was feeling very sorry for himself.

A month, he railed, a month with no letter from Caroline! You would think, with all we said, all we shared… damn! Buford took another drink. Careful, man! Best not to get drunk. There might be a good reason why you have not heard from her.

The front door opened to reveal Colonel Fitzwilliam walking in, obviously after a tiresome day. “Buford, my good man, pour me a glass—quick!” Buford did so and Richard took a sip. “Ah… at least there is something to be said for this misbegotten place!”

“Rough time of it, Fitz?”

“Argh, ever seen to the unloading of a bloody horse regiment?” He paused for a moment as Buford gave him a knowing look. “Oh, yes, of course you have. Well then, how can you ask how my day went?” he cried.

Buford smiled. Richard’s antics took his mind off his troubles. “Thank you for seeing that my equipment made it over.”

“No trouble, old man. Glad to have been of service. Your wife was very keen that I should give the matter my utmost consideration.”

Buford then realized that his wife had received his letter. But that still did not explain why there had been no answer. He changed the subject.

“Brandon should be here any moment.”

“Excellent—what is for dinner?”

“Beef stew in red wine with onions and mushrooms, pommes de terre sautées, and peas.”

“Any beer to go with that?” asked Colonel Brandon as he strode to the table. “I am famished!”

“Sit down, Brandon, and welcome!” cried Fitzwilliam. “I am glad you could accept our invitation. I have not seen any trace of you since I got here. Staff work keeping you occupied?”

“Yes.” Brandon lifted his newly arrived beer. “To us, gentlemen—three colonels of His Majesty’s cavalry! To hell with glory, let us go home!”

“To home!” the others replied.

“Colonel Brandon?” asked a voice from behind.

Brandon turned to see who had addressed him. “Ah, Denny! Will you not have a seat?”

“Oh no, sir, I am just delivering a packet from headquarters.” The major handed him the papers.

“Have a seat, Major,” said Buford. He had gotten to know Denny during his short time on the staff.

Denny eyed Fitzwilliam, who had turned his face away from him. Finally, after another entreaty from Buford, Denny sat across from Fitzwilliam.

Brandon poured him a glass. “To your health.”

“Thank you, Colonel,” Denny said as he sipped his wine.

“Beau’s been keeping you busy, Denny?” Buford used another nickname for their commander-in-chief. Wellington was well known for his sartorial splendor.

“Yes, sir—the ——th Regiment just came in. I must see that—”

“The ——th Regiment from Newcastle?” Richard cut the major off.

“Yes, Colonel.” Major Denny looked warily at Fitzwilliam. “Assigned to the reserve corps.”

“I see.”

Brandon began again. “I hope you like the stew—”

“Seen Wickham lately, Denny?” demanded Richard.

“No, sir. I have not seen Captain Wickham since he disembarked at Antwerp.”

“I am surprised, Major—you being such good friends,” Richard said savagely. The other two officers looked on in bewilderment.

Denny set down his glass. “Excuse me, gentlemen, uh… I just recalled a previous engagement. Perhaps another time.” He rose to leave.

“Denny, I—” cried Buford, but he was interrupted by Brandon.

“Of course, Major. Do not let us detain you. I will see you tomorrow.” Brandon rose and pointedly shook Denny’s hand. Buford rose and did likewise. Fitzwilliam simply sat and glared at the major. Finally, Denny left the boardinghouse.

“What the devil was that about, Fitz?” demanded Buford. “Denny is a very good fellow. There is no need to treat him like that.”

“If you really knew him, you would treat him no other way, Buford,” he said as he sipped his wine. Richard Fitzwilliam was not a vindictive man. It was not usually in his nature to hold grudges. But the happy-go-lucky visage he presented to the world hid the deep feelings of devotion he held to those few he loved. He would allow no one to harm his family or his closest friends. Chief among those he would protect with his life were Anne de Bourgh and Georgiana Darcy. George Wickham’s failed seduction of Georgiana and her subsequent melancholy had affected him more than anyone knew, including himself. He would never forgive Wickham—or anyone he suspected of helping him.

Buford was preparing to respond when Brandon restrained him with a touch of his arm. “It is something personal, I take it, Fitz. We would not dream of inquiring. Let us just drop the matter and enjoy our fellowship and our meal.”

Fitzwilliam nodded but did not closely attend. He was too busy thinking over the information he had just received.

Wickham is here. How interesting! I half expected him to run. I should keep an eye out for that bastard.

*   *   *

Rosings Park


Anne de Bourgh sat at her writing table in her suite of rooms, penning her latest secret dispatch to Richard via their co-conspirator, Georgiana Darcy. She hummed happily as she wrote; thoughts of Richard were a welcome distraction from the situation at Rosings.

For the last month since Anne received her life-altering letter from Colonel Fitzwilliam, the household was in a state of undeclared war. Anne had categorically refused to travel with her mother to Bath or to leave her suite of rooms to greet any visitor to Rosings other than family or the Collinses.

Lady Catherine, for her part, refused to talk to Anne or even acknowledge Anne’s existence when they were in company together. Messages were sent in writing through Mrs. Parks, the housekeeper, who had continued to take possession of and responsibility for the post, much to Lady Catherine’s displeasure. Lady Catherine also refused to allow Anne use of any of Rosings’s carriages under threat of dismissal for any groom who might come to the aid of Miss de Bourgh. Anne was reduced to walking the gardens or woods with Charlotte Collins.

Anne had just finished her letter. Only happy subjects were mentioned; Mrs. Jenkinson had been quite insistent upon that. “A soldier only wants good news from home. It keeps his spirits up. Bad news… well, it does him no good, with him being so far away,” she had told Anne.

“Come in,” Anne called to the knock upon her door. Mrs. Parks entered with a grave expression on her face. “Good heavens, what is the matter?” Anne cried.

Mrs. Parks gave her young mistress a significant look. “It is Mrs. Jenkinson, miss.” She motioned towards the lady’s room with her head.

Anne thanked the housekeeper and walked quickly to her companion’s door. “Mrs. Jenkinson, it’s Anne,” she said as she knocked on the door.

“Come in, my dear,” answered a voice that unsuccessfully hid sobs.

Anne opened the door to behold her longtime companion sitting at her desk, holding a piece of paper in one hand and wiping tears from her face with the other. Anne rushed to her side. Taking the older woman’s hand in hers, she asked, “What pains you? Can I be of any service, any comfort?”

Mrs. Jenkinson only shook her head and handed the letter to her former charge. A glance was enough. It was a signed notice from her mother dismissing Mrs. Jenkinson from her employ at Rosings. Anne flushed with anger but not surprise; she had expected this move by Lady Catherine.

She took the older woman’s face in her hands and said, “I have told you before, Mrs. Jenkinson, you shall always have a home with me.”

“But not at Rosings—not now,” she said softly. “Where am I to go? I have no children, and my family is all gone.”

Anne’s face had gone stony. “Do not despair. Leave this to me.” She rose and turned towards the door.

Mrs. Jenkinson rose in alarm. “Oh, Anne, what are you going to do? Please, do nothing rash. I shall manage—”

Anne de Bourgh turned back to her former governess, fire in her eyes. “This has gone on for far too long. It ends today.” She then left the room.

Mrs. Jenkinson gasped, for her former charge sounded just like her mother.

Anne swept down the hallway towards the staircase. At the head of it, she intercepted Mrs. Parks.

“Where is Mother?” she barked.

“In the parlor, miss.”

Acknowledging the reply with the smallest of nods, Anne marched down the stairs and to the doors of the parlor. Without preamble, Anne opened the doors and moved resolutely towards Lady Catherine. Her mother was at her writing table, reviewing her correspondence.

“Mother,” Anne greeted Lady Catherine with an icy voice, “it has come to my attention that you have dismissed Mrs. Jenkinson. Is this indeed your intention?”

“Well, miss! You now presume to speak to me! I should thank you, I am sure. Yes, I have let your governess go. It was my impression you had no need of one,” Lady Catherine sneered. “Besides, we need to economize now that we should expect no rents this year.”

Anne ignored the jab. “Do not play games with me, Mother. You do nothing without cause. What do you want?”

“Watch your tone, miss.”

“What do you want?”

Lady Catherine glared at her. “Your obedience and your deference, Anne.”

“So—I am to go to Bath, is it?”

Anne saw her mother’s eyes gleam. “Yes, Bath. I know what is best for you. You must be with society worthy of you. It is all arranged. I have been in correspondence with a General Tilney…”