“No, please don’t contradict me.” She lifted one eyebrow at his firmly sealed lips. “I know my faults, few as they may be.” When Darcy dared look, he saw she was grinning back at him, and he laughed softly.
“Tell me truthfully, how did Richard fare in overseeing?”
He groaned then laughed, rubbing his hand across his forehead. “Well, we just went over a few items; it will take awhile to review everything, but all in all, it is rather a mess. He cannot add, you know, nor spell, and his record-keeping is abysmal. He paid several merchants more than once, and we’ll need to contact your tenants to see who actually forwarded their rents. I’ll tell you one thing, however—he has a real love for the land. He kept excellent accounts of crop and timber proceedings. He’d make a good tenant farmer, maybe even an adequate squire one day.”
“I tried to sit with him, but we’re like oil and water so much of the time. He has no experience in running an estate this size, no training to speak of, being a second son, and yet he was the only one who stepped forward with assistance.”
“I am sorry this all came about. I had no idea you were that ill, or we would have been here. As it was, he informed us about it later, when you were already on the mend.” Darcy shook his head “Regardless, I should have contacted you; it was unforgivably childish of me to sulk so long, and he never told me about your steward or your secretary! Both incapacitated at the same time—imagine that. Quite a bit of bad luck, that.”
“Don’t give me that smug look!” She glanced sideways at him and smiled. “Yes, Darcy, I know they are old—just as I am, but, heavens, I cannot just push them out if they don’t wish to leave! I owe them so much, and they are part of my family. They are just as much a part of Rosings as I am and I will keep them all around me for as long as I can!”
They sat together for more than an hour and talked about old times and memories long forgotten. They laughed a little and cried a little until Darcy let out a great yawn and stretched his arms.
“Well, I must get to bed, and so should you, Catherine.” He helped her to her feet, and she suddenly appeared very tiny and frail to him. Gone was her immense wig, and in its place, a graying braid rested over her shoulder, most of her hair hidden under her favorite nightcap. Her feet were in slippers instead of the higher-heeled shoes she wore to give herself a needed inch or two, and the wrinkles around her eyes and face were more exposed now that she was unadorned with powder or lip rouge or the mysteriously moving patch that Richard and he used to laugh about.
“I don’t sleep as much as I used to, Darcy,” she said. “As you get older, it becomes harder to turn off memories, and believe me, they devil you to distraction at night. You get off to bed, though. The storm is still wailing outside, and you have a lovely young wife awaiting you who will want comforting during all the thunder. You need not give this old woman any more of your time.”
Darcy hugged her tightly and kissed her forehead before saying good night. Then she was alone again. She thought that perhaps she would go to Anne’s room and check on her, a mother’s habit that would never die.
Picking up her candle, she went out into a hall dimly lit with wall sconces, smiling when she saw Darcy close the door to his suite of rooms. That was good—another of her babies would soon be safely in bed.
She padded her way down to Anne’s suites to look in at her sleeping daughter, walking over quickly to close the windows that were allowing in some of the pouring rain. Clucking and grumbling, she brought a towel from the linen drawer and placed it over the rain-soaked carpet. Will these children never learn to listen to me? She harrumphed.
With relaxation still eluding her, she decided to check on the other rooms, to make certain servants were everywhere if needed. Jamison had done a good job, she noted to herself, as there appeared to be a footman every ten feet, the lightning outside illuminating the old mansion every few moments. She turned down the far hallway toward Fitzwilliam’s rooms, laughing to herself at his earlier comments. He truly was rather far from the main part of the house. He and Darcy had always had the west wing of rooms to themselves whenever they visited. She felt bachelors should have their privacy, especially from a nosy old aunt.
She saw a faint light below his door. Is Fitzwilliam still awake? It must be nearing 3:00 a.m. The two footmen assigned there bowed at her approach, which she amiably acknowledged, and then on her signal, one knocked softly on the door. After a few moments, she heard her nephew’s gruff bark. “Who is it?”
“Eleanor of Aquitaine. May I enter?”
She heard him chuckle. “Enter at your own peril. The Lionheart is in residence.”
When the door opened, he arose slowly from his seat before the fire. Her eyes immediately focused on the balcony doors as she approached him. They were flung wide, allowing in the cooling air.
“Good heavens, Richard, it’s raining outside, you fool.” She marched over to the doors to close them, barely refraining herself from closing the windows also. “It is freezing in here.”
“Aunt Catherine, the rain is not coming in this direction, and the room is only now beginning to cool down. God in heaven, woman, how can you think it freezing? Are you completely devoid of blood?” His eyes were scowling even as his lips fought off a smile.
“What a ridiculous thing to say! Of course I have blood, extremely blue blood, as you well know, and don’t call me ‘woman’ in that tone, as if I’m a tavern wench or camp follower or French.” He turned away to hide his grin as she sat in the chair next to his.
“What on earth are you doing up at this late hour?” She leaned toward him as he sat, stared at him with concern, noting the dark circles beneath his eyes. An empty glass and nearly empty whiskey bottle were on the table next to him.
“I couldn’t sleep.” His voice sounded a bit rough. “It happens to me now and then, especially during thunderstorms. That’s why I like the doors and windows open. I dislike being locked in when it rains.”
“You’re a young healthy man; of course you can sleep. Don’t be ridiculous! Apply yourself.”
As he settled his back into the chair, he studied her face from lowered eyes. Much of the weight she had lost during her illness had not returned, and he noticed that her skin looked paper-thin, that her graying hair looked wiry where it was not confined within her braid. She looked brittle almost, fragile as glass.
“God, but I feel old tonight, Richard.” She removed her cap to vigorously scratch the back of her head, yawning loudly. Gradually her eyes became accustomed to the dim light, and she saw a room in disaster—clothes and shoes thrown about, dishes resting upon the floor. His valise was opened but unpacked and rested on a bench beneath his window.
Her eyes grew huge. “Good heavens!” She was certainly wide awake now. “Richard Fitzwilliam! Did I not send up a footman to act as your valet this visit?” As any mother would instinctively do, she arose from her seat and began picking up shirts and pants, straightening chairs and stacking the amazing array of dirty plates, all the time grunting and clucking her tongue with every dirty stocking and wrinkled neck scarf.
This was the last thing he needed this evening. His eyes rolled in irritation. “Yes, you did… I sent him away.”
She turned to him. “Whatever for?”
“He didn’t like me.”
“Well, of course he didn’t like you—he’s a servant!” After placing the folded clothes upon his dresser and the plates on the sideboard, she sat back down again. “To paraphrase our dear Lord, ‘No prophet is without honor except with his own valet.’”
For a moment she engaged in a struggle to return her nightcap properly to her head, finally assuring herself that it was situated correctly. Exhausted from her ordeal, she sighed loudly. “Not all servants are as loyal as your batboy, O’Malley. Where is he, by the way?”
Fitzwilliam rubbed his eyes. “That’s my batman, not batboy, and for some unexplained reason, he wished to remain in London and spend some private time alone with his wife befor
e we return to Paris.”
His aunt’s only response was an uninterested, “How fascinating.”
He regarded her with a mischievous grin on his face. “And what on earth are you doing up at this late hour, stalking the hallways like the demented Lady Macbeth?”
“Well, as people age, they don’t need quite as much sleep as the young.”
“In that case, I wonder that you bother coming up to your room at all,” he mumbled then grinned when he saw her glare.
“I heard that. You are becoming much too cheeky, young man. I was talking with Darcy, if you must know.” She smiled. “It was good to speak of old times again with him. But he went off to bed, and so should you!” Her gaze slid once again over the bottle on the table then to the empty glass. Their eyes met.
“You seem to be drinking quite a bit, Richard.” Her voice had grown serious and quiet. “Much more than I ever remember, and I am growing more and more concerned about you, do you know that?” Her brow arched in inquiry as she watched him, waiting for his response. She was never one to be subtle.
“Awww… please do not start in on me again, Aunt,” he groaned. His shoulders hunched forward, and he rested his elbows on his knees, rubbing his neck with his hand. “I am not up to battle form tonight.”
“This is not to be borne, Richard, it really isn’t. You have such a… a heaviness about you at times that it breaks my heart. If there is something bothering you, you should speak to someone. Speak to Darcy. Do you feel ill? Or do you still feel the effects of the battles? Your injuries? Waterloo? Talk to a doctor, perhaps, but find out what troubles you so.”
He stared into the fire for a long time. Although the nightmares and flashbacks had, thankfully, begun to lessen, lightning and thunder always seemed to trigger his memories once again. How could he tell anyone of what he had been through, what he had done, what brutality he had seen these past ten years, battle after battle, mankind’s atrocities to the weaker and more vulnerable? War was nothing but legalized butchery. It was condoned insanity.
The ghosts of the past would sometimes flood back with the dark, so he kept the candles burning. Still, he was haunted with the sounds of men and animals screaming, the smell of blood and gore in his hair and on his hands, the smell of urine and shit and fear, the screams of maniacs in the heat of battle, the soldiers who viciously raped and tortured. His eyes squeezed shut at the memories. The storm outside raged on.
“What are those?” she asked, pointing to a stack of letters strewn across his desk.
“Believe it or not, those are words of sympathy I am still writing to the families of fallen soldiers, telling each and every one how their sons and husbands died valiantly in battle in the service of their country.” His voice sounded lifeless, and his eyes were red-rimmed. “That is finally the last of them, for now.”
“Is there any truth to what you write?” she asked quietly.
He shrugged. “I’ve written hundreds of these letters, thousands perhaps. There is no way to know how even a fraction of them met their ends, but no one wants to think of a loved one dying without honor or dying alone. I just hope it helps someone, somehow.” How could he describe to her the mutilated corpses, stripped naked and robbed, buried in mass graves with no hint of their identities? God, he felt so old tonight.
He was tempted to pour himself another drink but stopped, ashamed for her to see him. She looked different without the wigs and jewels, paint and elegant clothes, older than her fifty-odd years, rather grandmotherly and touchingly concerned. He would pour himself the drink once she left, and then maybe he could get a few hours sleep yet.
He reached over and grabbed her hand. “Thank you, dear Aunt, for your concern, but I shall be fine.” He squeezed her hand and released it, fighting off the depression that could sometimes devastate him. He sensed that she watched him but would not allow himself to look into her eyes.
“Richard,” she said softly. “Richard, look at me, Son.” His eyes finally came up to hers. “Whatever is causing this melancholy, do not try to drown it in drink. It does not work.” Tears began to well in her eyes and blur her vision. “I know that it does not work because I have already tried.” By the end, her voice was a mere whisper.
They stared long and hard at each other. He broke the gaze first, and she could sense that he was closing his feelings, drifting from her once again. Soon his familiar emotional barricades would be up, and he would be joking and teasing to fend off his demons.
She stood, her heart saddened, not knowing what else to do or say. It had become increasingly apparent to Catherine that Richard had lost his place in the world during the wars, weighed down by all the years away, years of sacrifice made for his country, memories and regrets for what he had seen and all the years of normal living he had missed. He could not give up hope for a future now that the wars were over. Well, she simply would not let him. It was time for him to rejoin the living.
“You must somehow find your way home to us, Richard, in both body and soul.” Her voice was gentle but firm, and she looked lovingly down at his bowed head.
“Remember, Son, true character is revealed in the dark.” Her hand softly cradled his cheek. “And I have every confidence in yours. You are a fine man.” She kissed his forehead. “Choose life, dearest.” When she began to straighten, his hand brought her cheek back to his for a moment. She could feel the moisture of his tears.
“Good night, Aunt Catherine.” He spoke so brusquely and low that it was barely audible. “And thank you.” Reaching the door, she turned to say something but saw he was again lost in thought.
***
After the door was shut, Fitzwilliam studied the bottle he had automatically reached for… and stopped.
He replaced the cork.
“To bed,” he whispered as he pushed back his chair.
Unknowingly, Catherine had won.
He chose life.
Chapter 13
Lady Catherine and Mr. Bennet spent the first day of their visit discussing common ailments and aches and commiserating with each other over the loss of a spouse. She personally took him on a tour of the house and grounds, and was very impressed with his knowledge of horticulture. He was particularly interested in her many greenhouses, where flowers, fresh vegetables, and exotic fruit were grown year round. He lingered in the greenhouse that specialized in experimental farming and talked at length with the head gardener.
“Mr. Bennet, I have saved the best for you, I think, for last.” They came back into the house and headed up the long marble staircase to the second floor. The staircase ended directly before an impressively large set of double doors at the middle of the first landing.
“Whatever can you show me to exceed the wonders I have already seen, your ladyship?” he asked and then stepped back in awe when she opened the doors to the Rosings library.
“I believe we have the most extensive private library in the country. My husband was an avid reader and collector of rarities.” She arched her eyebrow. “I think if he could have, he would have moved his bed into this room. I want you to feel at home here.”
Mr. Bennet walked hesitantly into the two-story wonderland and spun around slowly. He had never seen so many books, so many rarities housed in glassed cabinets, so many manuscripts and globes. A huge mullioned window with beautiful roses and twining vines dominated the back wall from top to bottom. There were four circular stairways leading to the balcony surrounding a second level of books and glass cabinets, and a series of sliding ladders against two of the main walls. It was magnificent.
“I am overwhelmed,” he whispered as if in church. “Thank you, dear lady, for this.”
“Not at all,” she replied kindly. “You deserve some time to indulge yourself. You need only ring for anything you want.” She pointed to a bell pull near the massive fireplace. “We shall see you later for dinner?” she asked. Still in shock, he waved her vaguely away and wandered into his holy of holies.
***
Eliza
beth awoke later that evening to Darcy crouched on his heels before her, his hand resting gently on her stomach. She had fallen asleep after dinner as the others talked quietly around her, and now they were the last to retire. “Elizabeth, do you know that when I called your name I could see a ripple move across you here!” His eyes were filled with awe, and she smiled up at him.
“I noticed earlier that whenever you speak, I am able to feel him move slightly.” This was the first time they allowed themselves to speak openly about their child. “It started earlier today, thank goodness. I confess I was beginning to worry a bit.”
“You said ‘him.’ Do you have inclinations in that direction?” he asked, helping her to her feet.
“Right now I feel only happiness and relief that there is movement. Whatever it is will be fine with me. What of you, William?” He nodded and kissed her lips tenderly. They then held each other for a long time before turning to make their tedious, slow ascent up the staircase again. Even though she looked happy, Elizabeth’s eyes were rimmed and dark, her body moving unsteadily behind the stomach that appeared suddenly larger each day. Darcy worried at the spurt of growth within her, anxious that perhaps there were twins coming, and she was so very petite.
“Your aunt seems very happy now about our marriage.”
“Yes, she does, but her attention shifts are legendary. We will have to wait to see which way the winds blow.”
As they entered her dressing room, Darcy called for her maid. “Oh, Lizzy, your legs are swelling up badly. You will not be walking tomorrow.”
“No, please, William. I so love my morning walks. You know that.”
“You will be better served by staying in bed resting with your feet up.”
She tried to protest, but he put up his hand to stop her. It was then that he noticed a letter had arrived for Elizabeth from her sister Jane but had been left unopened.
“What does your sister write?” he asked, trying to divert her attention. He crouched before her to help remove her shoes.
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