Jane Austen's Pride & Prejudice Sequel Bundle: 3 Reader Favorites (115 page)

Fitzwilliam had fared poorly upon the trip home to England, but stoicism was part of his nature. Denial of pain was not a surprise, but he projected such cheerfulness about his circumstances, that Darcy knew that a farce as well. Fitzwilliam’s vision and Darcy’s hearing had repaired at about the same level. Fitzwilliam’s sight was blurry and it left him dizzy. Darcy could hear, but mostly higher tones.

Of the two, fortune smiled most favourably on Darcy, for he could understand most of what Elizabeth said and could hear the babies when they had a notion to let out a wail. (Elizabeth assured him it was best his ears were disadvantaged at that particular time, for the noise the infants produced together was quite extraordinary.)

Still steadfastly at his side, Georgiana had accompanied Fitzwilliam to Whitemore, but the news of the babies’ births bid her make haste to Pemberley. Seeing his sister standing safe within the walls of their home once again was a grand, but far too fleeting moment for Darcy. Quite precipitously, he was reminded that other ill-tidings were at hand and Elizabeth would have to be told.

As her recent company with her brother was both compact and extended, it could be understood if immediately after Georgiana gave her brother her congratulations in an unbridled embrace and kiss on the cheek, she relinquished his company to go to Elizabeth and have a look at her niece and nephew. Before she did so, Darcy told her of Mr. Bennet’s recent death.

Then, rather mildly, he added, “I am told also that another loss has befallen the family. It is reported that George Wickham has evidently lost his life in valorous battle.”

They stood looking at each other silently for a moment, for Georgiana knew of Wickham’s treason.

Georgiana responded, “If Wickham shot John Christie in the stomach and left him to die, I hope he is burning in hell as we speak.”

Darcy found no argument with that sentiment, but cautioned her, “With all that has bechanced, I have yet to tell Elizabeth that young John is dead, or that Fitzwilliam’s wounds kept us in France. She thinks it was the quarantine alone.”

Though it was not actually asked of her, Georgiana understood she had just inherited the unkind duty of delivering that information to Elizabeth, “I shall explain what has come to pass as best I can.”

It was as Darcy had hoped, for he was not yet certain in his own mind “what had come to pass.”

Perhaps filtered through Elizabeth he would understand it better himself.

Darcy did not inquire why Georgiana stayed with Elizabeth for an extended visit. In other circumstances, he would have interrupted such a lengthy stay, rousting the over-zealous confidant in defence of Elizabeth’s rest. But he knew that it was probable Elizabeth would learn more of Georgiana’s situation in those few hours than he had uncovered in all their time together in France, thus he kept himself downstairs and fretfully paced the room. Full curious, but still not disposed to expose it, he made a great show of a lack of interest in his sister’s discourse, but wasted little time after Georgiana had left before returning to hear from Elizabeth what was unearthed.

Forthwith of other information, however, Elizabeth announced, “As soon as I am up and about there will be a wedding to plan. That is, of course, with your approval.”

That Fitzwilliam and Georgiana had come to an understanding was not an unmitigated surprise, but Darcy was not yet certain what he thought of it. Fitzwilliam was quite unwell and it seemed premature to take so great a step as marriage. An engagement seemed too imprudent to him, even one done in the proper way.

“I think this should be postponed at least until Fitzwilliam can come to me and ask for her hand properly. If he is too unwell for that, he is surely too unwell to marry.”

At that pronouncement, Darcy went over and peered at the baby resting in Elizabeth’s arm, trying to determine its identity. Elizabeth called to the nurse to come take the babies, which surprised Darcy, for she had scarcely let them out of her sight. The babies gone, he sat down next to her plumping her pillows.

By all rights, Darcy should have taken notice of the solemnity of Elizabeth’s countenance just then. But so all-consuming was his determination to be nothing but happy to be home, one must forgive him for looking to her in love rather than query. Thus, it was with reluctance that Elizabeth was compelled to readdress the issue of impending wedlock. It was only when she stopped his fussing with her comfort and took his hands in hers that he clearly looked at her countenance and all that it betrayed.

She said simply, “I fear ’tis impossible to wait until Fitzwilliam is fit. I understand that might take a year.”

As Elizabeth spoke, she soothingly stroked his hands. This unmistakable gesture of solicitude was not misinterpreted, howbeit it did take a few moments for him to come to full realisation.

He asked regardless, “It is impossible to wait?”

“Yes.”

With more than a little bitterness, he said, “I fancy this means Fitzwilliam is more fit than I imagined.”

“But you see they must wed immediately?”

Elizabeth wanted to keep the conversation moving forward but, not unexpectedly, was unsuccessful.

Even more bitterly, he said, “I have spent the last months away from you in care of Fitzwilliam and I am repaid by this?”

“I truly do not believe this occurrence was staged for your injury, sir.”

Elizabeth had a half-smile ready for the glare she knew she would receive. And the semi-smile did, if not eliminate, at least soften the truth of her words. He stood and did the inevitable of walking to the window and looking silently out across the grounds. Omnipotence had not lasted two days. He chuckled at the irony, thus alarming Elizabeth.

“Laughter was the last thing I would have thought to hear from you right now,”she said.

He almost explained that he was laughing at himself, not the situation, but did not. Instead, he said as he turned around and faced her.

“Tell me, Mrs. Darcy, who shall I get to second Fitzwilliam?”

“Second him?”

“Yes, it must be someone hardy. Only a stout man can hold him up whilst I run him through. Perchance Bingley will do it.”

Darcy said this with all due severity and Elizabeth was not entirely certain he was not serious. Not entirely certain he was not serious either, Darcy continued to speculate upon the duel this deflowerment demanded.

“Yes. It is my place to demand satisfaction upon this insult to the House of Pemberley. Is there a greater insult a gentleman can sustain than defilement of his sister?”

He had begun to pace with reclaimed anger.

She countered, “Possibly the insult to his character was he to draw the blood of a blind cripple?”

“That is my dilemma, is it not?”

“I think there is something else to consider.”

She patted the bed next to her, inviting him to sit by her side again.

When he joined her, she said, “Georgiana has been frank with me, not in the particulars, but in general. I understand Fitzwilliam has been bedridden?”

“Yes. We left as soon as he could rise.”

“Thereupon I think you will agree Georgiana was neither seduced nor over-powered.”

In all the ill-humour of a humbling defeat, he stretched out upon the bed with her, and groused, “I shall never agree with that. I may not argue against it, but I most certainly will not agree.”

It took Elizabeth some cajoling, some teasing, some encouragement, but eventually Darcy gave up the business of duelling Fitzwilliam. That misguided venture joined Elizabeth’s scheming revenge of Charles Bingley’s infidelity and was filed away under abandoned reprisals.

P
erchance it was the rapidity of tumultuous events, or maybe Mrs. Reynolds’ age simply told her it was time to rest, but sometime during that night her heart seized.

Paralysed upon one side, she lay helpless in bed until the other servants became alarmed by her absence from duty at dawn. Mr. Darcy was called and the doctor fetched, but few held out hope of her recovery. Dr. Upchurch again came to impart ill-tidings, proclaiming her failing heart would cease directly.

Elizabeth insisted she be allowed downstairs to sit with the old woman, though Darcy argued against it. Knowing she was determined, he picked her up and carried her himself, though Cressida whined and circled his legs as he traversed the stairs, nearly causing additional catastrophe. (Troilus’s absence declared his fate, thus Elizabeth was spared explaining to Darcy the exact circumstances of his demise.) Darcy could not bring himself to scold the dog and merely called for a servant to corral the widowed hound until he got Elizabeth safely to Mrs. Reynolds’s bedside.

Both sat there for some time, until Darcy perceived Elizabeth’s fatigue and insisted she return to her own bed. He, however, kept watch upon Mrs. Reynolds throughout the day, reporting her deteriorating condition to Elizabeth. It was late evening when the old woman truly began to fail. Again, he drew a chair to her bedside, this time reaching out to hold her knotted, spotted fingers as she endeavoured to speak.

“Take care, Mr. Darcy.”

He assured her he would, and, expecting that was a good-bye, attempted to blink away the tears that stung his eyes. He thought it strange that in all that he had witnessed, death moved him not less, but more. All her qualms were not settled, however. She said a queer thing.

“But what of Wickham?”

Wickham? The last words upon her lips were of Wickham? That was an astonishment. Darcy could not fathom it, for Mrs. Reynolds despised Wickham nearly as dearly as did he. Endeavouring to reason such a blasphemy, he conjectured her wits had fled her waning body. She, however, looked so clearly in wait of an answer, he truly did not know what to say. Thus, he did not speak and merely waited for her possibly to reclaim her senses.

She spoke once more, but only the single word. “Wickham.”

It took him a moment to realise she was gone, for her eyes, yet in enquiry, stared at him. Reaching out to close them, he called for the doctor to pronounce what he already knew was true. The room soon filled with weeping house servants, several covering their sobbing faces with their aprons. Reluctantly, Darcy left to tell Elizabeth of her passing. As he ascended the stairs his steps slowed, then came to a halt. A coldness descended upon him that was not reflected in the clamminess that claimed his armpits. He stood very still, as if frozen in place.

Wickham.

That despised name reverberated in his enfeebled ears. Again, he questioned himself as to why Mrs. Reynolds would inquire of Wickham upon her deathbed. For the first time since he had first heard and thereupon, in disgust, cast it away, he recollected what Roux had said about his father having a bastard child.

Wickham?

Not Wickham. Even if such abomination were true, he meant not Wickham…that simply could not be possible. Wickham was the son of old Mr. Wickham, Mr. Darcy’s steward. He lived in the house with them after Mr. Wickham died because…his father was fond of him. Keenly fond of him, to have him live with his own son. In the upper floors of Pemberley.

Darcy took another few steps and stopped once again. Thereupon, he turned and went to his library. It was late in the day, but light had not quite quit for night. He looked out upon the long shadows across the grounds and thought. He thought of everything he could remember spoken of Wickham’s circumstance at their home. Would not his father have told him had he a brother? He could not answer uneviquivocally. For howbeit his father had always been keenly aware of and suffered not gladly the foibles of men, he had remained true to the unscrupulous George Wickham regardless. Was that from a sense of contrition?