Jane Austen's Pride & Prejudice Sequel Bundle: 3 Reader Favorites

by Linda Berdoll

  Though he fled from Elizabeth, he would not compleatly rupture his relationship with Darcy. This, the outcome of two understandings. The first was a rationale, the second a matter of platonic esteem. If he severed his connexion with his friend utterly, it might invite enquiry and Fitzwilliam did not want to have to account for a discontinuity betwixt them. Additionally, and most importantly, breach himself if he must from his home county, he could not weather the loss of Darcy’s friendship. Particularly as a result of his own dishonourable feelings. Hence, he bartered himself a compromise by maintaining communication by post.

  Endeavouring to accomplish his arrested visit to Pemberley by letter (what he should have done in the first place, he scolded himself), Fitzwilliam carefully composed a missive. Making only the most cursory attempt at remarking upon the mundane (roads, weather, his boots, and the poor state of all three), he thereupon inquired specifically of Wickham and the call he paid to Pemberley.

  Darcy’s reply was prompt but succinct, which was the way of all letters betwixt them, thus betraying no knowledge of any indiscretion upon Fitzwilliam’s part. (Had he been angry, his response would have been more eloquent, always a flag of displeasure in Darcy’s correspondence.) With Darcy supplying the gist of Wickham’s visit, Fitzwilliam was able to glean the truth of the matter. And that it involved Wickham and bastardy was not an astonishment.

  Darcy’s retelling did not, however, include Wickham’s advances upon Elizabeth. Had it, Fitzwilliam’s perplexity over the subsequent visit of Lady Catherine would have escalated into outright bafflement. He might have leapt to the same incorrect conclusion as had Elizabeth, believing the two occurrences were not coincidental. His rescue from misconception was unbeknownst to Fitzwilliam. Thus, he could not reap any comfort from it.

  Consolation he needed in abundance, for his misery was very nearly making him ill. In desperation, he forsook his exceedingly advantageous assignment with the Household Cavalry and took to loitering about the Horse Guards building in White-hall reading the latest missives about the doings across the Channel. Most of these were penned by Wellesley, whose defeat of Napoleon’s marshals in the Iberian Peninsula demanded a dukedom. Hence, he signed his dispatch announcing Napoleon’s banishment from France as “Wellington.” (So exalted was Wellington’s reputation in England, one might have believed the duke had personally annihilated Napoleon’s battalions upon the frozen Russian tundra himself.)

  With their French nemesis exiled in despotic petulance upon the tiny island of Elba, Fitzwilliam’s cronies revelled in the victory. However happy they were to have Napoleon upon his knees, few were quite ready to forgo all chance of glorious rencontre and many groused about their spate of medals.

  Fitzwilliam, however, fretted, “That slyboots has two strings to his bow. He cannot be counted hors d’combat until we see his head on a spike.”

  Prophetic words.

  After the initial triumph of Napoleon’s expulsion, the successive dispatches from the continent were of a tiresome political nature, nothing at all to excite an Iberian veteran. Fitzwilliam and his Whitehall colleagues read each of the increasingly tedious reports with dispassion. They had most probably reached their apex of monotony upon the day of the arrival of the improbable (to the point of hilarity) news that Napoleon had escaped and was marching upon Paris with an army only six hundred strong.

  To those not quite willing to give up the sword, interest, to say the least, was piqued. As each subsequent day brought new revelations (and less jocularity), the number of officers who listened in disbelief at the Horse Guard Offices grew into a jostling, impatient mob.

  Most promptly, news arrived that Napoleon’s discharged army officers (unhappily thrust into civilian oblivion with only half-pay) had developed sudden amnesia of the Russian debacle they had experienced at their former emperor’s command and flocked to his leadership once again. If he was to be stopped, immediacy was all.

  By mid-March the Petite Usurper had amassed a battle-hardened army of two hundred thousand soldiers. Thus, when Wellington arrived in Brussels to man a stand to check the aggression, he was disheartened to find a few Hanover units buttressed by only ten thousand British troops. The duke was desperate for brigades, regiments, companies, yea, any allied man with a weapon or a horse.

  It was within this call to arms that Fitzwilliam found absolution. Experience was crucial, for the fight would be to the death. With that understanding, Fitzwilliam volunteered for Belgium duty and returned to Derbyshire to say good-bye to those he loved.

  Unsuspecting of the nature of Fitzwilliam’s reappearance, Darcy was quite happy to see him again, insisting upon hosting a small celebration. Their group was small, a family gathering. Lady Matlock was not present, for she refused country life yet, necessitating Matlock to winter alone. Her absence, however, did not preclude Fitzwilliam’s farewells. With Georgiana, Jane and Bingley, Bingley’s sisters, and the increasingly dissipated Mr. Hurst all forsaking London for a leisurely spring in the country, theirs made a tolerable number to mark the occasion festive.

  When Fitzwilliam had decamped from the county immediately after his impetuous confession to her, Elizabeth had been both relieved and bothered. She had hoped to have the opportunity to make light of the incident, fancy it a jest. It might be awkward, but she could think of no other way in which to handle it. The precipitousness of his departure eliminated that possibility, and the longer he stayed away, the more severe seemed the gaffe.

  Hence, the family supper was most uncomfortable for not only the guest of honour, but the hostess as well. An additional irritant was the presence of Caroline Bingley. Possibly in preparation for the season in London, possibly because there was simply no other unattached man about, Caroline Bingley had taken to dipping her interminable chin and batting her stubby eyelashes at Fitzwilliam. It was unlikely that Caroline was so desperate as to seek a match with title-less, fortune-less Fitzwilliam when she had once set her cap for Darcy, but he did present a dashing figure.

  Elizabeth watched Caroline rearrange the place cards to seat herself next to her latest flirtation with less than forbearance. Under the best of circumstances Caroline tended to be a bit crabby, which led Elizabeth to conjecture she had not yet (or at least not regularly) had her pleasure garden ploughed. But as much as she would have favoured seeing an improvement in dear Caroline’s disposition, Elizabeth was not so unkind as to wish Fitzwilliam’s manhood sacrificed upon her particular pudendum femininum. His disappearance to London had pronounced him spooked of Pemberley and Caroline’s blatant coquetry was not an inducement to tarry.

  Nevertheless, Elizabeth concluded it best not to reason another’s desires. Perchance Fitzwilliam might be happy to accommodate Miss Bingley. It was her understanding a woman had to be truly offensive for an unoccupied man to absolutely refuse to copulate. However disagreeable Elizabeth thought Caroline, she must not presume Fitzwilliam’s mind. He had taught that lesson to her well.

  After supper, Fitzwilliam patiently unwound Caroline’s arm from his and the men departed for tobacco and port in the library. Before the ladies had time to arrange their dresses about their ankles and pick up their sewing, firm, even strident, voices drifted into the air of the drawing room. That was most unusual, for indocile exchanges were rarely heard (Lady Catherine had been there only the one time) inside Pemberley. Above the din of the Bingley and Hurst children’s complaints as they were corralled for bed, Elizabeth heard the unaccustomedly stern voice of her husband.

  There was an argument ensuing amongst the gentlemen, but only Elizabeth and Georgiana seemed conscious of it. They sat side by side upon a sofa centred in the room. Thus, the disagreement echoed through the double doors and wafted upon their ears. What they heard was alarming, although the debate had not escalated into a row. There were no truly cross words, but opinions were unquestionably vehement.

  Elizabeth glanced nervously at Georgiana. Her countenance did not betray if she was eavesdropping upon what was being said across t
he hall. Full curious herself, Elizabeth considered making a casual stroll to the door in the hope she could hear enough from that vantage to determine what was at odds. But Caroline Bingley sat across the room and Elizabeth was afraid her retreat to eavesdrop at the doorway might invite her scrutiny. If she were to be a busybody, Elizabeth preferred not to have it noted.

  “How can you believe that, Fitzwilliam?” Bingley demanded, “Napoleon fled France disguised as his own postilion to escape his own countrymen who called for his head. None but the Vieille Garde will follow him again.”

  “As badly as we want to believe they will not, it is true. French officers were discharged from service at half-pay. They are flocking back to him by the tens of thousands. Even Marshal Ney, who vowed to recapture him, fell to his knees and kissed the little man’s feet. A considerable battle is upon us.”

  The men-folk were all seated in chairs near the fireplace; Matlock, Fitzwilliam, and Bingley each held a brandy snifter in their hands. Well-fortified at supper, Mr. Hurst had judiciously abdicated the conversation by reason of being incoherent. Darcy had set his glass down. The men, save Mr. Hurst, sat upon the edge of their wing chairs. (Mr. Hurst, who was more or less lolling, was having difficulty keeping his glass upright. A servant, stationed behind him just for this purpose, took the linen from his arm and dabbed at the fabric of the chair with each slosh of Mr. Hurst’s glass.)

  “I thought the French were happy with Louis,” Matlock puled.

  Morosely, he peered into his wineglass, utterly perplexed by the capricious nature of the Gaul.

  Ignoring his brother’s innocuous complaint, Fitzwilliam said with finality, “The Leopard merely had his tail removed; he is a dangerous animal yet. Wellington has advised that we must refortify our army now or be content to have the threat of Napoleon’s bravado for another decade. I, for one, intend to take leave to-morrow. My regiment will depart from Portsmouth.”

  “Your superior officers, of course, will be happy to have your expertise amongst them. But your service in the peninsula was at great personal expense,” Darcy reasoned. “You have been wounded once, you were lucky to survive. Even the King does not demand you go into battle once again, Fitzwilliam. You are needed here to train the officers who take the place of those lost in Spain and Portugal. Is that not service enough?”

  “Indeed, that is just the point,” Fitzwilliam countered. “Many of the troops allied with us are ill-trained, the Dutch, the Belgians…”

  “Yes,” agreed Darcy, “that is just the point. Napoleon’s army may be small, but you say they are seasoned veterans and fiercely loyal. Except for Wellesley and Blucher amongst the allied military, there are no true leaders, only courtiers and politicians. Csar Alexander is a joke as a general and determined to interfere with strategy. Even a British victory will still be annihilation. A bloody mess!”

  “Am I not to engage in battle because of the possibility of bloodshed?” Fitzwilliam retorted. “Or am I to desist because I am needed here?”

  “Whichever argument will keep you at home, I fancy,” Darcy replied miserably, knowing he had blundered with his rebuttal.

  Matlock interjected, “Young Howgrave has purchased a commission in the Fourteenth Hussars.”

  “Indubitably favours their hats,” Darcy said with a sardonic sniff. If his conscience demanded him to cease despising that young man’s connexions, he would heap his considerable contempt yet upon Howgrave’s sartorial exuberance. (In his defence, Hussar uniforms did consist of an impressively tall beaver hat with a brush. Most others just had plumes.)

  “He is quite keen on hats, is he not?” Matlock agreed, happy to find a point that he understood.

  Fitzwilliam’s brother was uncomfortable with political debate and matters foreign. So long as Nappy and his Frenchies were not espied descending upon Whitemore, Matlock would be quite happy to spend his time doing nothing but fretting over the price of keeping up an earldom.

  “Young Hinchcliffe has gone, too,” Bingley ventured timorously.

  Thus far, the only thing of Bingley’s endangered by the endless monstrosity of war were the manufactured goods from which his own fortune was claimed then piling up on British docks. The wavering blockade by France loosened those monetary fears and beyond that, he held no personal ideology. He had told Jane he was grateful the decision to join the fight against France was not his. (The long held British hatred for France was in reverse proportion to the wealth of the British citizen in question. Perversely, those who had the least to lose, bore the greatest malice.)

  The reminder of the scurrilous pool of which officer material was drawn to support Fitzwilliam was of no particular comfort and Darcy begat a pace about the room. “A bloody mess,” he muttered, then louder, “A bloody massacre.”

  Flabbergasted to hear Darcy actually curse, Elizabeth had set down her sewing, giving up any pretense of needlework. By that time, their nurses finally had the various nieces and nephews in hand and the children began a reluctant tramp up the stairs, thus effectively drowning out what little Elizabeth could hear.

  “Bloody bother,” she muttered, then hastily glanced about to see if she had been overheard.

  It was additional frustration for her husband’s profanity to have encouraged her to exercise her own. So intent upon her eavesdropping, Elizabeth had not paid due attention to Georgiana who, as always, sat quietly at her elbow. Beyond the brief prayer that Darcy’s sister had not overheard her curse, she had not given her notice. Hence, when Georgiana finally spoke, even in so soft a voice, Elizabeth was startled.

  “You understand what is happening, Elizabeth?”

  Astonished, Elizabeth turned to Georgiana and shook her head, for she was not certain, only suspicious, and that Georgiana was not asking her for information but offering it was an amazement.

  “Fitzwilliam is going to Belgium to join Wellington,” Georgiana stated. “I fancy he is to depart immediately.”

  Elizabeth furrowed her brow, “Wellington?”

  “Wellesley. He is now a duke.”

  She knew that Wellesley had been made a duke. The newspapers were full of it. It had slipped her mind momentarily. Darcy shared his gazettes with her, even the most scurrilous. She devoured them voraciously. She fancied there were few ladies more informed about public events than she. Unless conversing with her husband, she spoke of matters foreign but seldom, so rarely did she find any interest or knowledge of it in her society of gentlewomen. It was a mild irritation upon the very first occasion she had to speak intelligently about intelligent matters she sounded thick as a post.

  In Paris, ladies sat smoking amongst gentlemen in grand salons dedicated to affairs of state, not just affairs. In London, they were certainly less prevalent, if not absolutely nonexistent. Just how an innocent such as Georgiana came in possession of information so esoteric to men was a considerable mystery to Elizabeth. Obviously, she did not spend all her time cloistered amongst her books.

  Knowing it sounded patronising even as she said it, Elizabeth offered, “How can you be so certain, Georgiana? We best wait and see, perchance it is only a possibility.”

  She patted Georgiana’s hand reassuringly.

  “No, Elizabeth, he will go. I know he shall. I know why he shall, as do you,” Georgiana said, and said no more.

  Elizabeth sat silently also, looking directly at Georgiana, whose gaze held hers without faltering. Glancing covertly about the room to make certain she would not be overheard, she spoke.

  “What do you know of this, Georgiana?”

  “I came upon you the day my aunt called.”

  Elizabeth nodded once.

  “Go on,” she bid.

  “I overheard her harsh words to you and hurried to your defence. But I was preceded.”

  Elizabeth dropped her head and touched her forehead with her fingertips. The reason for Georgiana’s own disconcertion that day was uncovered. She overheard Lady Catherine’s accusations against her brother, and from the look upon her countenance,
Elizabeth was certain she was about to hear Georgiana announce she heard Fitzwilliam’s vow of love as well. Elizabeth’s foremost fear was that one more person knew of it. That bade it one step closer toward Darcy hearing of it. Truly, she did not want to come betwixt her husband and his cousin. That simple wish was soon forgot. “Colonel Fitzwilliam has chosen to put himself in harm’s way rather than cause a cleft in our family. He shall submit himself to a felo-de-se,” Georgiana deduced, thus eliminating any other possible interpretation of events.

  “I would do anything to undo this,” Elizabeth said.

  When Georgiana did not respond, Elizabeth asked, “Do you see any way out? I truly believe the colonel’s regard is merely an infatuation, not true love. I believe him misguided…”

  Before she could say more, her husband burst into the room indignant and angry. Discreetly, Georgiana withdrew. And after Darcy gave them a pronounced glare, she was followed hastily by Mrs. Hurst, Miss Bingley, and Jane. Had she not been so utterly confounded by Georgiana’s revelations, Elizabeth might well have fled after them. Darcy seemed not to notice the flight he incited, but walked to the fireplace and hit it with his closed fist causing the bric-a-brac upon it to shimmy.

  “Fitzwilliam has decided to take leave at dawn to-morrow to go to Portsmouth and join a regiment bound for Brussels,” he announced. “He knows with his connexions he will not be turned away. Wellington remembers Fitzwilliam from the Portuguese encounter and will be most happy to have a man of his ilk to join him.”

  Elizabeth raised her forefinger in an attempt to interject a question, but it was not significant enough a gesture to be noticed.

  “Fitzwilliam is an excellent horseman. Well-schooled. His men admire him. Every manner of a man that the King’s army should want in an officer. But however courageous, however laudatory his horsemanship, he will be but fodder for the amateur leadership of the great British army.”

  He took a heavy breath at this and Elizabeth leapt into the brief pause to becalm him.