by Beau North
There’s so much I haven’t told you. I was hiding in Charleston, hiding from myself. I didn’t want to be Richard Fitzwilliam anymore. I didn’t want to be anyone. I couldn’t live another day with my heart like a curled-up fist.
I’d made up my mind that day the railing broke—proving the old adage that making plans is the surest way to make God laugh. In saving you, Slim, you saved me, for a while. You found the cracks in my walls and poured into me like sunlight, but the dark has a way of creeping back in, and I think you felt it too. You took the two broken halves of me and made them whole again. Haphazardly uneven, perhaps, but no worse for wear. I came to you crawling on my hands and knees―and ran away on my own two feet.
I was not in my right mind, you know. Truth is, I’m wrung dry. And you (you wonderful, impossible creature) you deserved happiness, so I left. Whether or not you ever forgive me, my heart, sorry thing that it is, is ever and always yours.
R
(letter unsent)
September 1945
Annapolis
Richard stepped into his father’s room and looked around. The maid had kept it free of dust, but it still had a stale air of disuse about it. The room itself was mercilessly neat and felt much like the rest of the house…a cold museum of a once-great family. He felt a hand on his shoulder but didn’t turn, knowing it was Darcy.
“Who lived in this room?” he asked, not expecting an answer. “Who was the man who slept in this bed?”
Darcy sighed. “The attorney is here. He’s in the dining room with Aunt Catherine, whenever you’re ready.”
Richard nodded absently. “No time like the present, I suppose,” he said, turning off the light and closing the door before following Darcy out of the room. He’d been back in his family home for two weeks, time that was a meaningless blur of long days spent sleeping. Those weeks had passed with the slow brutality of a wound closing, painful and necessary.
He felt an odd amusement at the pair of people seated at the great mahogany table in the old formal dining room. The attorney was a small, tweed-clad man whose shiny bald pate and too-small features made him appear almost gnome-like. He hunched over a stack of documents in front of him, carefully avoiding the woman sitting next to him. Catherine sat ramrod straight as she always did, her salt-and-pepper hair swept away from her proud face in a painfully precise twist. Richard caught sight of the sour turn of her mouth when she spotted him walking in behind Darcy. In a different time, it would have made him laugh. Now he just looked blankly at her before taking a seat across the table.
“Where’s Anne?” Richard asked. He hadn’t seen her in years, and he worried that one look from his most perceptive cousin would send all his carefully constructed walls crashing down.
“At home,” Catherine said curtly. “She wasn’t feeling up to the trip.”
Richard nodded, a little relieved. He turned and looked at the attorney.
“Whenever you're ready.”
The little attorney cleared his throat (a phlegmy sound that made Catherine cut her eyes) and began to read. The contents of the admiral’s will were only surprising to Richard in that he wasn’t completely written out of it. The house came to him. Several family heirlooms he left to Catherine, along with a respectable sum of money. An enormous bequeath was made to the Naval Academy. The remainder of his fortune was divided evenly between Richard, Anne, Darcy, and Georgiana, with a separate trust for the continued care and upkeep of his wife, Dorothy Fitzwilliam. His navy benefits would go into that trust―with the exception of five thousand dollars, to be bequeathed to one Miss Evelyn Ross, of Fremantle, Australia.
Catherine’s color rose. “What bunk! Who is this woman?”
This time Richard did laugh.
“Isn’t it obvious? The old man had a little something on the side. Frankly, I’m surprised. I know dear old Dad preferred the kind of companionship only money could buy.” He looked at Darcy. “You remember, don’t you D? He took us to that cathouse when you couldn’t have been older than sixteen…”
Darcy looked at him in consternation while Catherine became livid. “Hold your scandalous tongue, Richard Fitzwilliam! I won’t listen to that kind of talk about your father!”
“It says here that”―the attorney tried to interject, but Richard had at last reached the point he’d been dreading since Darcy had whisked him away from Charleston three days ago. He slammed his hand on the table, making the cups of coffee rattle on their saucers.
“You don’t have to listen! This is my house now, and I will speak however I damn well choose!”
He had the momentary satisfaction of watching Catherine pale before a hot feeling of self-loathing washed over him. Scaring an old woman. I hope you’re proud of yourself. He stood to go, but Darcy’s hand on his arm stayed him.
“Christ’s sake, sit down,” Darcy growled. Richard did as he was told. Darcy turned to the attorney.
“I apologize. We’re all still in a bit of shock.”
“Be that as it may”―Catherine huffed―“I don’t understand why―”
“It’s not for us to understand why,” Darcy said icily. “It’s what your brother wanted.” He turned to the attorney. “Have you contacted this Evelyn Ross?”
“We sent inquiries to Fremantle, which informed us that Miss Ross is now Mrs. Ward, lately of London. We have sent notice there.”
“Good, good,” Richard said absently, his palm still stinging.
“It says here that the bequest in on behalf of James Fitzwilliam.”
Richard flinched. “On behalf of James?”
“Please,” Darcy said to the attorney, “finish your reading.”
The gnome-like, little man straightened his tie and continued from where he left off.
“‘An additional bequeath of five thousand dollars is to go to Miss Evelyn Ross, of Fremantle, Australia, as per the wishes of my eldest son, James Aaron Fitzwilliam.’ And I’m instructed to give you this.”
From a folder, he took out a sealed envelope, pushing it across the table. Richard took it with numb fingers. He tore it open to find another unsealed envelope covered in his brother’s familiar handwriting. The air left his lungs as if he’d been kicked in the gut. The letter was postmarked from Sydney, less than a month from when James would meet his end.
Richard pushed it over to Darcy. “You do it, D. I need some air.”
October 15, 1945
Dear Slim,
I don’t know why I still write you. In a way, I think it helps me keep you while letting you go. I don’t think I'll ever be bold enough to send you these. They will likely―rightfully―find their way into an ash heap.
But I miss you. And so I write.
October in Maryland is beauty without remorse. I’d forgotten how much I loved autumn here. The clear air is like apples and dead leaves, seasoned with the ocean salt. You can begin to feel the sharp edges of the cruelty to come, the last reprieve before winter.
There was a ceremony for my father at Arlington. Full honors. George Marshall himself was there. I went with Darcy and our aunt Catherine, the old battle axe. We stopped at James's marker to pay our respects. I wanted to tell him about you, about father, about all of it...but he isn’t really there. A ceremonial gesture for a ceremonial grave.
I’ve wandered down to the docks today, and I sit here with the autumn sun warming me as I watch the rich boys at the yacht club trying to impress their girls, the sailors strutting by trying to steal them away. The wind coming off the bay is cold, a promise of what’s to come, and I can’t help but think of the sweltering heat of Charleston, how it felt like sex, all humidity and ocean smells. I think of that birthmark of yours, the one shaped like a strawberry that I liked to nip with my teeth. You know the one. I try to sleep at night but feel hot and cold all over, remembering you, firm and sweet as apples. I don’t just hunger for you, Slim. I starve.
Yours, still.
R
* * *
(letter unsent)
December 24, 1945
Dear Slim,
Christmas Eve―I am trying not to be morose. I think of you surrounded by your sisters. Did you stay in Charleston or did you go home to Longbourn? I actually looked on the map and didn’t see any town in South Carolina named Longbourn; it must be even smaller than I thought. It’s probably for the best I don’t know where it is; I don’t know if I could resist the pull of you, and I know you probably never want to see me again.
Darcy invited me to Pemberley for Christmas. That’s his home in North Carolina. Maybe you’ve even heard of it. I should have invited him and his sister, Georgiana, here for the holiday. I think about them knocking around that enormous house with only themselves and some employees for company. My home is much smaller than Pemberley, but somehow it’s so much colder. I think it’s the ghosts of my father and brother. They haunt me here. But I’ve run enough, and so I’ll live with ghosts.
The clock just chimed, letting me know it is now midnight. So, I suppose I should wish you merry Christmas. It’s a strange thing to think of, how for a time not that long ago, you must have imagined this would be our first Christmas together. I confess I imagined it myself. It’s easy to be sentimental about the holiday, I suppose, but I don’t think I can be now. In fact, I feel comfortable confessing to you that I downright hate Christmas.
I wonder if this, this spark of you, will ever diminish. How will I face the long years of my life with this fire burning in me, undaunted and undimmed? With you, without you, I’m yours either way, and I have to say that today―in this very moment―it frightens me. This isn’t the proper order of things. That’s okay, Slim. I’ll never trouble you with these thoughts.
The riverbeds of my heart dried up long ago, but, if they belonged to anyone, they belonged to you. Everything I am is stained with you, with this love like the ink in my skin.
Yours, still,
R
* * *
(letter unsent)
* * *
Richard folded the letter and held it toward the fire now crackling in the fireplace. He hesitated, reconsidered, and placed it on the mantle instead. He could burn it, burn all the other stupid, lovelorn letters tomorrow. Or next week even. A new year, a new beginning. He didn’t write her as often as he once did, only when he was feeling particularly alone as he was just then. It was nights like this one that the cold house felt most haunted, by James, by the specter of his father, and the shade of what had once been his mother. Sometimes he could remember what she’d been like, before. The memory of her would steal across his mind like a passing thought. He always found these moments more troubling than comforting, because there was no chance of knowing her as she’d been.
Sitting there alone in an empty house on Christmas day, in what was becoming the strangest year of his life, Richard again saw the wisdom in his decision to come home, to burn the bridges that connected his life to Elizabeth’s. He looked around the house, trying to imagine her lively presence in that haunted place. Not even her warmth and laughter could make those unforgivable walls more welcoming. He wasn’t happy, the sharp tears prickling the corners of his eyes told him that, but he was gratified to have spared her this.
He laughed to himself, a strange sound that seemed terribly loud in the silent house, and lay back on the couch where he and his brother had sat on their last night there together. That was the last time this place felt like home. The thought chased him down into a troubled sleep.
9
February 3, 1946
Dear Mr. Fitzwilliam,
How strange it feels to write those words! Thank you so much for your letter. I must admit that after reading it, I was a little overwhelmed, so I’ve put off replying until I know I can be calm. I am so happy to know you.
To answer your question, I met your brother in a pub in Sydney. He was with a group of other sailors―all very noisy, fun fellows. It was very crowded, and he gave up his seat for me. I told him I liked his voice, and he said, “I was about to say the same thing to you.”
I fell in love in an instant, and so did he. He made me very, very happy, and I think he was happy too. When I heard what happened, I thought I’d lost my heart forever, that I’d die a spinster having never loved again. But life is funny. The heart is a house with infinite rooms, it seems. While James will never be forgotten, or loved any less, I have married a good English bloke. He isn’t James, but he is kind and caring, and it really isn’t fair of me to compare the two.
I hope you will write to me again. I’ve enclosed a photo of myself and James that was taken at an officers’ dance in Sydney. I hope it brings you comfort.
Sincerely,
Evelyn Ward
November 3, 1946
Pemberley Grounds
Lambton, North Carolina
Georgiana leaned into the saddle, her fingers curled in Merry’s mane. “Faster, my darling,” she whispered to the animal. He seemed to understand and respond, going from a canter to a gallop. Georgiana smiled, loving the feeling of the icy November wind whipping her hair, the ache in her legs and back, the smell of horse, and the thunder of hooves. One of the only times she ever felt confident was when she was riding. Even playing the piano had become more of a chore than a beloved occupation, since her brother seemed to want her to play all the time for him. She loved her brother dearly but felt his judgement and expectations of her like a weight on her back. Lately, she’d begun to wonder if he was lonely. Since their father died, and then James, and all the terrible business with Richard, she’d sensed her brother becoming more and more withdrawn, his brooding silences going on longer, his routines more eccentric and ingrained. He was snappish and surly, threatening her with boarding school any time she stepped a toe out of line.
Sometimes she wondered if it wouldn’t be the best for them both if she went, but she feared the distance she felt growing between them. What should happen if she left only to come back to find a stranger walking around in her brother’s skin? As much as the thought of being around other fifteen-year-old girls appealed to her sometimes, she thought it possible that her brother needed her almost as much as she needed him.
“Ho there!” someone called out, disturbing her thoughts. She tugged on Merry’s reins, slowing the gelding to a trot. Another horse, one of the beautiful chestnuts foaled on their farm, came trotting up to them, its rider smiling at her.
“George? Is that you? Good heavens. It’s been an age since I’ve seen you!”
“I’m sorry to have disturbed you, miss, but I was looking for a Miss Georgiana Darcy, about four feet tall, loves to steal shoelaces for a prank.”
Georgiana blushed, laughing. It felt so good to laugh. “How long have you been back? We thought you’d gone back to law school.”
“Until there are better laws, Miss Darcy, there should be better lawyers.” He grinned at her. Had he always been so devilishly handsome? Of course he has. Why else would you have stolen his shoelaces?
“Besides, I find the classroom to be too restrictive, too confounding, and too confining. If they taught classes out of doors on days like this”―he sat back in his saddle and closed his eyes, inhaling deeply―“why, I’d never miss a lesson.” He opened his eyes and looked at her. She looked away quickly, her face growing hot in the cold morning air.
“My tutor sometimes gives lessons on the grand patio,” she admitted. “But only when it gets too stuffy indoors.”
“A wise woman, without a doubt.”
“Are you here to stay?” She looked under her lashes at him. His hair was longer than she remembered, his skin a tawny shade that she found ever so appealing. The blue of his eyes was deep and electric. There was an energy about him, a vitality that made her want to hang on his every word, follow his every move. His charm was magnetic, and she felt herself pulled in by it.
“Your brother has kindly given me a job.” He hesitated a moment, looking embarrassed. “Working with the horses.”
Georgiana wanted to groan. How could William hav
e been so callous? A job with the horses? The Wickhams had been the family attorneys and business managers for generations. And George was practically family!
“Would you like for me to speak to him, George?” she asked delicately. He gave her a lopsided grin that made her stomach turn cartwheels.
“Not at all, Miss Darcy. I’m glad of the work. There’s many out there who aren’t so lucky.”
She supposed that was true, but it still seemed like an insult.
“Well, I’m glad that you’re back,” she said, hoping it mollified him. “Things will be a bit livelier now!”
George chuckled and patted his mount. “Will’s more of a stick than even I remember.”
“It’s been difficult since…”
“I know.” For a second, his face was as unreadable as her brother’s had ever been. “I miss your father, too.”
She felt herself softening like a bit of butter left out in the sun. “Of course you do.”
He shook himself and turned to her with another smile. “Enough melancholy for one day. Race you to that next rise?”
Georgiana grinned. “You can try.”
* * *
March 12, 1946
Dear Richie,
I’m glad to hear you’ve decided to make the pilgrimage to meet Mrs. Ward. I think it would make James happy too. Please let me know your impressions of her. I can’t help but be curious; she was almost family, after all, and if you say so, she will be, no matter who she is married to now.
