The Angel of Longbourn

by Rowland Jann

  “Then we shall have to rectify that, sir.”

  “And you, Miss Bennet?” asked Mr. Darcy. “You have been presented to me as an intrepid young lady. Does your list of accomplishments include chess?”

  “It does,” said Elizabeth, even while her father laughed and said: “She gives as good as she gets when she plays against me, Mr. Darcy. I dare say she would be an excellent challenge.”

  “Then I shall look forward to it.” Mr. Darcy paused and smiled. “What do you like to read, Miss Bennet? Perhaps we have some common tastes we might discuss.”

  As Elizabeth fell into conversation with the man, she reflected that her first impressions of him were positive, that he was kind and proper, and certainly not lacking intelligence. His conversation was engaging, and she soon was engrossed in it. Indeed, had she been able to see herself, she might have realized that the picture she presented was like her sister’s when in the company of Mr. Bingley.

  So absorbed was she in their discussion that she only peripherally noticed that Mr. Bennet had left the room.

  Chapter IV

  Disoriented as he was upon waking, Darcy was grateful that Mr. Bennet had been on hand to inform him of what had befallen him. Waking up in a strange place with a strange woman hovering over him was not something Darcy had ever experienced before, regardless of how pleasant the young woman had been. The older man, though he was yet an unknown to Darcy, was comforting, and though his character was quite different, he reminded Darcy of his father and recalled to his mind the privilege of relying on one older and more experienced than he was himself.

  For the rest of the day and into the next, Mr. Bennet kept Darcy company, and good company he was. They were both interested in similar literature, which made their conversations interesting, and as Mr. Bennet had suggested, their views were not always similar, which made their debates, at times, spirited. Mr. Bennet was also skilled at chess, and Darcy found that besting him was not at all certain—he was more accomplished than Bingley, whose mind often wandered in the middle of the game, and could not be counted on to provide a serious challenge.

  Mr. Bennet’s eagerness for Darcy’s companionship was readily explained, as the subject came up that first afternoon in which Mr. Bennet sat in his room.

  “Should you ever have the occasion to have five daughters, Mr. Darcy, I am certain you will relish any male company you can obtain.” Mr. Bennet laughed. “Though I love my daughters, the concerns of lace, fabrics, gossip, and bonnets can strain the patience of any rational man.”

  “Then I am nothing more than a pleasant diversion?” asked Darcy, raising an eyebrow at his host.

  Mr. Bennet laughed again. “At present, let us simply say that I am enjoying the company of another man. While there are few men whose society I can tolerate for many days without finding it irksome, I believe you might be one of them. But only time will tell.”

  “Then you must call me ‘Darcy.’”

  “I am quite happy to do so, sir,” replied Mr. Bennet. “If you will allow me the same courtesy.”

  And thus their friendship was established. The poor weather and the fact that the harvest was now in meant that Bennet was now very much at his leisure, and Darcy was happy for the fact. Though he was not in the habit of showing any weakness, he found he had little strength and the aches in his head and his stomach, which were his constant companions, required a distraction, which Bennet amply provided. At least he did not find himself expelling the contents of his stomach on any regular basis.

  Of the rest of the family, Darcy was not able to get much of an impression. He could not see the estate or the house, but from the bedroom, Darcy judged that Bennet was a minor country squire, though by the man’s own words, his family had held the land for many years. The room in which he was housed was at the end of the hall, and as such, there was little movement past his bedroom door. He was often witness to feminine—and entirely too loud—giggling, exclamations, and other high-spirits, which sounds he assumed were from Bennet’s daughters, but on occasion, he also heard quieter admonishments. Not all the man’s daughters were too loud, then, though it was clear some were. Given the softly spoken reprimands, he thought it likely that the elder were disciplining the younger.

  Miss Elizabeth was the only member of the family other than Bennet that Darcy had met, and his discussion that first day had shown Darcy that she was an intelligent young woman. While she was not, perhaps, the definition of beauty according to society, she had a light figure—she was a petite woman—a playful disposition and beautiful, dark eyes, the kind that any man could drown in. Though others might disagree, Darcy soon decided that she was uncommonly pretty and a woman he would not be unhappy to know more of.

  Other than the first few moments the day he awakened, and when Bennet had allowed them to converse a little the next day, Darcy was never alone with her. Darcy had the distinct impression that Bennet was a little lax when it came to matters of propriety, but he never allowed any question of impropriety again.

  It was not long before Darcy began to feel the effects of being in the bedroom, confined to the bed at all hours of the day. The apothecary was approached, and he allowed Darcy to rise from the bed for a time each day, as long as he stayed in the room and did not overtax himself. The room in which Darcy was housed was small, but there was some space on the side across from the bed. That afternoon, Bennet had the servants bring up a small chaise and a chair.

  Feeling quite impatient, Darcy decided not to wait for Snell to assist him to rise. Instead, pulling himself up into a sitting position, then swinging his feet over the side, he leveraged himself onto his feet. A moment of dizziness almost made him sink back to the bed, but Darcy persevered, and after a moment it passed, though he still felt as weak as a newborn colt.

  On unsteady legs, Darcy made his way over to the window. From there, he looked out over the back gardens of the estate. It was clear that it was not a great estate—the formal gardens consisted of a rose garden and other assorted flower plots, along with some he thought might have been used to grow vegetables or herbs. They had all been carefully prepared for the winter. The lawn was pleasant, and beyond it there stood a kind of little wilderness, trees and shrubs growing haphazardly, providing shade and beauty during the summer, though the leaves were now a riot of colors, and many had fallen to the ground. Near the edge of the wilderness stood a tall tree with a thick horizontal branch, and there a swing had been set for the amusement of the Bennet sisters.

  There was not much in the way of statues or works of art one might have seen at larger estates, though Bennet did have a few pieces scattered about here and there. Directly below his window, Darcy caught sight of one small stone statue, and though the angle was difficult, it appeared to be an angel. Darcy smiled at the sight—surely it was apropos of his situation, as he had surely been saved by a very angel from God.

  “Sir!” the sound of his valet’s voice alerted Darcy to his arrival. “You should have waited for me to assist you!”

  “I am sorry, Snell, but I could not bear another moment in that bed.”

  Though he did not say anything further, Darcy knew that Snell was displeased with him. Thus, Darcy allowed him to fuss without complaint, accepting Snell’s assistance to the chaise, where the man saw him situated comfortably with a plethora of pillows and blankets. Snell could be a mother hen when he felt it necessary.

  It was not long before Bennet arrived and greeted Darcy. “I see you have left your bed. Good man! I could never stand to be in one overlong.”

  “We are in agreement, Bennet,” said Darcy with a distasteful glance at the inoffensive piece of furniture. “But I likely should have found my way to the chaise before Snell came upon me. He was not amused.”

  Bennet laughed. “I can well imagine it, sir. He seems to be the hovering type.”

  They settled in, and there they whiled away the afternoon. Miss Elizabeth also joined, and though she appeared to be a little
uncomfortable to be in the bedroom of a man, her wit did not suffer. Moreover, she displayed an uncommon skill in chess, as her father had indicated, and bested him in the first match they played. If Darcy had not been rendered exhausted by his illness, he would have looked forward to a rematch where he would do his utmost to avenge the defeat at her hands. As it was, he was forced to look to the future to once again have the opportunity.

  After luncheon the next day—Darcy had found that he was unable to stomach anything more than a thin beef broth—a visitor was announced to his room. He had been sitting with Bennet, enjoying telling the man of Pemberley, which was one of his favorite subjects, when Miss Elizabeth appeared in the doorway, a familiar form following closely behind.

  “Darcy!” boomed the voice of his cousin Fitzwilliam. “I should have known you would be lolling about in bed while others work.”

  Darcy groaned and fixed his cousin with a mock glare. “Mr. Bennet, I suggest that you have this jackanapes thrown from the house. He will bore you with his stories and annoy you with his insouciance. And those are his good qualities.”

  Of course, such an introduction did nothing to dampen Fitzwilliam’s enthusiasm. In fact, he did nothing more than throw back his head and laugh at Darcy’s denunciation.

  “I take it you know this man?” asked Bennet with no little amusement.

  “He should,” replied Fitzwilliam. “And if he will deign to make the introductions, I will soon become known to you as well.”

  Though with exaggerated hesitation, Darcy consented. “Fitzwilliam, this is Mr. Henry Bennet, the proprietor of this estate, and his second eldest daughter—and my savior—Miss Elizabeth Bennet. Mr. Bennet, Miss Bennet, this is my scallywag of a cousin, Colonel Anthony Fitzwilliam. Fitzwilliam is the second son of my uncle, the Earl of Matlock.”

  Bennet turned and eyed Darcy with interest. “It appears like Miss Bingley’s account of your high connections was not an exaggeration, sir, though I am interested in the fact that you did not see fit to mention them yourself.”

  Feeling a little embarrassed of himself, Darcy coughed and said: “I hope you will excuse me, sir. I found I enjoyed the relative anonymity.”

  “Darcy often finds himself the center of attention,” added Fitzwilliam. “If it is not his extensive estate, it is his connection to my father.”

  “Rarely do I find someone interested in me,” added Darcy.

  “That I can well understand,” said Bennet.

  Though Miss Elizabeth looked on Darcy with wonder, Bennet, it seemed, had suspected something of Darcy’s connections, as he looked on Darcy with a knowing eye. Neither of them made anything of the information, however, which gratified Darcy; it appeared he had judged them correctly after all.

  “I find that I am in your debt, Mr. Bennet,” said Fitzwilliam after a moment. “It seems my cousin was gravely ill, and if Bingley’s account is to be believed, he might not have survived, but for your intervention.”

  But Bennet only waved him off. “If anyone deserves thanks, it is my Lizzy.” Miss Elizabeth, Darcy noted, was sporting a most fetching blush. “Lizzy found your cousin during one of her ubiquitous walks, and she alerted us to the situation. All I did was to send for the wagon and make sure the apothecary was called to examine your cousin.”

  “I am certain you are too modest, sir,” said Fitzwilliam. Then he turned to Miss Elizabeth and said: “You are an intrepid young lady, it appears. I thank you for finding him. Darcy can be so much trouble at times. I am certain he needs his elder cousin to watch him, lest he put himself in frequent danger.”

  Miss Bennet giggled, though she did not say anything. Mr. Bennet also appeared highly amused.

  “Well, good sirs,” said he, “I assume you have much of which to speak. Lizzy and I will absent ourselves, so that you may attend to it.”

  Saying that, the two departed, but not until instructing Fitzwilliam to take as much time as he required. The door closed behind them, leaving Darcy alone with his cousin. In truth, Darcy was not certain he wished to be the sole focus of Fitzwilliam’s attention—his cousin was well known for his constant jests and incessant teasing, and though Darcy loved him like a brother, Fitzwilliam sometimes provoked him to exasperation.

  “Well, Darcy,” said Fitzwilliam, seating himself nearby, “I must own that you managed to get yourself in a fix this time.” He looked about himself with expansive interest. “Though this is a serviceable sort of estate, it is nothing to Pemberley, and given what I have seen of the family, they are certainly not of our sphere. I wonder if you shall be able to bear the contamination a stay here will force upon you.”

  “Fitzwilliam,” Darcy chided, “I am grateful to the Bennets for assisting me. I was out, alone in the rain, and quite insensible to the world, I assure you. Had Miss Elizabeth not come upon me when she did, I shudder to think of what might have happened.”

  A nod and Fitzwilliam relaxed. “I am glad to hear it, old boy. I know how fastidious you can be, and I would not wish you to offend these people who have opened their home to you.”

  Frowning, Darcy regarded his cousin, not quite able to believe what he was hearing. “Surely you cannot think me capable of such behavior. Bingley is one of my closest friends, is he not? And you can hardly accuse him of being of high society.”

  “No, I would not think it of you,” agreed Fitzwilliam. “But your friendship with Bingley makes it all that much more curious. I have seen you give little consequence to those who have been gentlemen all of their lives, and yet you are close to Bingley.”

  “I think, Fitzwilliam,” replied Darcy in a wry tone, “that if you will think about it, most of those I hesitate to acknowledge are those who want something from me or have daughters intent upon entrapping a wealthy husband.”

  Fitzwilliam guffawed. “That just makes it more perplexing! For Miss Bingley has had your scent for so long that it is simply amazing that you still tolerate Bingley. You know he does nothing to rein in her behavior.”

  Not thinking that it was any great mystery, Darcy only said: “Bingley is my friend, and if I must tolerate his sister to keep his friendship, that is what I shall do. I am well able to handle the likes of Miss Caroline Bingley.”

  “I never doubted you were, Darcy,” agreed Fitzwilliam. “Tolerating Miss Bingley for the sake of her brother is uncommon civility, you must own.”

  “Perhaps, but I would not lose Bingley’s friendship. Everyone has those with whom they are most comfortable, and at times there is no reason for it. I enjoy Bingley’s company enough to endure his sister.”

  Fitzwilliam nodded and changed the subject. “I received Bingley’s missive concerning your situation, but I did not share it with Georgiana before I left. As far as she is aware, I have simply left town to visit some friends for a time. Can I assume that you would prefer to leave her in ignorance as to the true state of affairs?”

  Darcy could not help the grimace that his cousin’s words provoked. His sister and her probable reaction to the news of his illness was a thought he had not wished to consider.

  “I think there is no need to concern her,” said Darcy slowly. “I assume her state of mind is the same now as it was the last time I saw her a month ago?”

  “Mother believes she is making some progress,” replied Fitzwilliam, “and Mrs. Annesley seems to have been a godsend. But her spirits are still depressed, yes.”

  “Then let us not worry her.”

  Fitzwilliam only grunted, even as a darkness—which Darcy understood—seemed to settle over him like the coming of night. “If I ever lay my hands on Wickham, he will wish I had not.” Fitzwilliam’s voice was more the growl of a feral animal than the words of an intelligent man.

  “So long as you do nothing which will see you in prison. Or worse.”

  “You injure me, Darcy,” replied his cousin. “I promise you: should I ever catch up with Wickham, no one will ever suspect me of anything, for he will never be found.”


  There was nothing to do but laugh. Fitzwilliam was not the type of man to resort to violence to resolve every conflict, but should Wickham ever cross his path again, Wickham might wish he were dead once Fitzwilliam was finished with him. Darcy found he could live with that notion quite cheerfully. It was nothing more than Wickham deserved.

  From that day forward, Colonel Fitzwilliam became a regular visitor to Longbourn along with Mr. Bingley, though there was a marked difference in the behavior of the two men. They were both happy and gregarious, both kind and amiable, but whereas Mr. Bingley largely confined his attentions to Jane—much to Mrs. Bennet’s obvious satisfaction, and Jane’s understated delight—Colonel Fitzwilliam was attentive to all. He did spend much more time in Mr. Darcy’s company than Mr. Bingley did, but he did not slight the family by spending all his time above stairs.

  The revelation that the man was a colonel was accomplished as soon as he exited Mr. Darcy’s room and attended the family in the sitting-room the day of his arrival, and though Elizabeth might have dreaded the scene her younger sisters created, in fact, the colonel seemed to find amusement in their behavior, rather than take offense.

  “You are Mr. Darcy’s cousin, I understand?” asked Mrs. Bennet. As was her custom, whenever some unattached man was present, she immediately set to determining what she could about him, especially the man’s means and whether he could afford a wife.

  “I am,” replied the colonel. “Darcy and I were largely raised together. His mother was my father’s sister.”

  “Are you . . . is your father’s estate close to Mr. Darcy’s?” asked Mrs. Bennet.

  “It is, indeed,” replied Colonel Fitzwilliam with evident good humor. “Snowlock is less than thirty miles from Pemberley. My father is often in London, due to his responsibilities, but it is well-known that we Darcys and Fitzwilliams are more comfortable in the country than in town.”

  Mrs. Bennet did not quite know what to think of that. Elizabeth knew her mother’s mind, and to Mrs. Bennet, the wonders of London were without compare, though she, herself, had spent little time there.