Fitzwilliam and Elizabeth

by Greer Boyd

  Fitzwilliam

  and

  Elizabeth

  A Pride and Prejudice Alternative

  Without undue pride or prejudice

  by

  Greer Boyd

  Copyright © 2014 by Greer Boyd

  All rights reserved

  Printed in the United States of America

  For information about permission to reproduce selections

  from this book, write to:

  Greer Boyd

  gboydbooks@gmail.com

  Book design by PenworthyLLC

  Access for photography for cover design

  courtesy of Glencoe Museum, Radford, VA

  ISBN: 978-0-9864435-0-3

  Author’s Note

  I first read Pride and Prejudice in my early teens. At that time, the book was interesting but nothing more. In my late teens, I read the work again and found a true masterpiece. It was a matter of living a bit more of life to understand the nuances of a time long gone. Almost every year since that time, I have continued to re-read Jane Austen’s work. Each time I read, my mind kept asking “What if this or what if that had happened.”

  My attempt is not to detract from a true classic: it is simply a “What if?”

  Dedication

  To all of you who read and re-read and offered your suggestions, thank you, and to my mother who instilled in me a desire to read.

  CHAPTER 1

  Fitzwilliam Darcy paced back and forth in front of the fireplace in his study. “Damn Wickham. Damn him to hell.” At this moment, he knew he would kill Wickham if he could get his hands on him. His cousin, Colonel Richard Fitzwilliam, shared the sentiment. “I agree Darcy. Georgiana does not deserve this,” he said.

  Finally, Georgiana had seemed to overcome her regret about the aborted elopement with George Wickham almost two years ago, at least enough to face her presentation scheduled for seven days hence with some degree of equanimity. Considering how terribly shy she had become after the incident at Ramsgate, Darcy had thought to delay her presentation another year, but Amanda and then Aunt Eleanor (Lady Matlock) had worked with her until Georgiana herself felt that she was finally ready.

  Darcy walked from the fireplace across the thick rug covering most of the floor of his study to the small oak table where the brandy and glasses stood. Taking two glasses in his left hand, he poured a brandy for himself and another that he handed to his cousin before settling himself in the wingback chair. As he slowly swirled the amber liquid in the glass, one of the glowing logs resting on the fire dog broke in half, causing the entire burning mass to shift and send hundreds of tiny sparks sailing up the chimney. Resting his head on the back of the chair, he allowed memories to sweep over him.

  His earliest memories were of his parents, a loving mother and a doting father. Darcy was happy, and he knew that he was loved. He could not remember a time when he had not felt safe and secure. Night after night his mother sat with him on her lap in the simple wooden rocking chair in the nursery to rock him to sleep. When he ran down the stairs to throw his arms around the legs of whichever parent he came upon first, neither ever turned him away. His mother would kneel down and kiss his cheek then take his hand and lead him along whatever way she had originally been going. His father would reach down and lift him up. Darcy liked that he was high above the floor, as his father carried him throughout the house, along the grounds, or to the stable. Sometimes the three of them would ride the grounds of Pemberley searching for the perfect place for their picnic lunch, Darcy bouncing happily in front of his father in the saddle.

  His father had recounted the history of Pemberley and of the Darcy family and instilled in him the love of the land and how to care for it. His mother taught him to respect the people who worked the land and made all that they had possible. His father taught him honor and responsibility, while his mother taught him love and respect. His constant barrage of questions was always answered.

  Even when he was very young, he had instinctively known that his parents loved him and also loved one another. Often he had witnessed his parents holding hands as they strolled through the many pathways of the various flowering gardens. Sometimes one would lean softly into the other to secure a comforting embrace or a gentle kiss. One time, quietly stepping behind his mother as she sauntered the winding gravel pathway between the lavender beds, his father had gingerly slipped his arm around her waist, and softly whispered into her ear. She slowly turned in her husband’s arms and reached up on tiptoe to gently nuzzle his neck with her lips. Darcy continued to watch as his father swept her up into his arms. She threw her head back, twined her arms around his neck and laughed merrily as he swiftly carried her toward their bedchamber. Darcy did not know what had possessed him to follow after them, but he had.

  He smiled as he remembered the sounds coming from behind the bedchamber door, laughter, whispers, a soft moan.

  Yes, as Darcy thought back, he knew that his parents loved one another.

  The years of his early youth were carefree. He remembered playing with the children of the servants and of the tenants when he was not off riding with his father or listening as his mother read to him. Out of all of the many children on the estate, the son of his father’s steward, a young boy a year or so older than he was, played with him more often than any of the others.

  He and George played soldiers, battling an imagined enemy with their wooden swords. They raced out over the wide fields unrestrained. Some days, they might simply fish in the ponds of the estate or in the small streams that ran through the woods supplying water to those ponds. Any exciting thing that two friends, almost as close as brothers, might do, they did. George Wickham was a good and trusted friend, until that day when Darcy was one and ten.

  After having breakfast with his mother and telling her that he and George were going to go riding, Darcy had raced from Pemberley House to the open door at the nearest end of the stable where he heard loud voices. Before his presence could be known, he came to a sudden stop close to the gate of the last stall. First, he heard George speak to one of the young groomsmen in a most condescending manner. Then, ducking into the stall, he grimaced when George told another of the stable boys: “You had better learn to move more quickly when I speak to you if you know what is good for you. Do not you know I am the first son? I am the heir of Pemberley. You had better learn to do what I ask when I ask.”

  When the young stable boy laughed, George had punched him in the face, knocking him sprawling backward into one of the dirty horse stalls. As George turned to walk away, some of the older groomsmen chastised him, “Sure, you are the heir just like your father before you.” Laughter echoed from the stables.

  Darcy stood almost frozen in place, but he was able to duck slightly lower into the stall so as to not be seen. George Wickham walked past him rubbing the knuckles of his right hand. Darcy sunk down still lower onto his knees and thought that he would be sick. He tried to think clearly. He knew that he was the heir. He knew that he was his father’s son. What could George possibly mean by saying that he was the first son, the true heir? Darcy knew that there was one person he could ask and he immediately set off to speak with her.

  Mrs. Reynolds had become the housekeeper at Pemberley House when Darcy was but four years old. Over the years, his mother had seemed to fall sick more and more often. Each time she fell sick, it took her longer and longer to recover, and Mrs. Reynolds had become like a second mother to him.

  Later in life Darcy had learned that his mother’s sickness was due to her many miscarriages. After each one, she seemed to grow a bit weaker. When he grew old enough to go away to school, she did not want to be parted from him. So, instead of letting him go away, she arranged for a long string of t
utors to come to Pemberley for his education.

  He still witnessed his parents’ love for one another, but now he could not miss the sadness that had crept into his father’s eyes. Somehow, he, too, felt a little of that sadness, although he was careful to make sure that his mother did not see it. Except when she was not feeling well, which seemed to be more and more often, his mother was there for him. But Mrs. Reynolds always had time for Darcy.

  So he stumbled from the stall and ran from the stables into Pemberley House to Mrs. Reynolds’ office below stairs. He tried desperately to calm himself and to quiet his breathing and his rapidly beating heart. As he caught his breath, he looked into her kind face and asked if she might have a moment to speak with him.

  Mrs. Reynolds loved Darcy as if he were her own child, but this was the first time that he had ever been so formal as to “ask” to speak with her. Usually he simply ran into her office and immediately rattle off whatever was on his mind. He would reach for a muffin or cookie conveniently located in a basket on the corner of her desk, a basket she had placed there specifically for him.

  When she assured Darcy that she indeed had time to speak with him, he hesitated, clenched and unclenched his hands, looked at his feet, and became uncertain as his agitation grew. He was unsure exactly how to ask the question. Finally, he looked into her face and asked as confidently as he knew how, “Am I my father’s heir?”

  The hair stood up on the back of her neck and her face paled slightly as she responded calmly, “Why would you ask such a question?”

  Listening intently as he related what he had overheard in the stables, she reached for his hands, looked deeply into his bright azure-coloured eyes, and bestowed a kiss on his forehead. “Master Darcy, this is not my story to tell.” She released one of his hands, and with the other led him above stairs to stand outside the door of his father’s study. She purposefully knocked on the door, and hearing the word “Enter,” opened it and, as she and Darcy passed through, quietly closed it behind them.

  Darcy did not know what to do. The words “not my story to tell” echoed in his head. He did not know what to think, “Not my story to tell.” His mind was reeling, and he was starting to feel sick again. Surely Mrs. Reynolds had not brought him to his father to be punished. What had he done to merit being punished? Being led into his father’s study hand-in-hand was unnerving, especially for a boy one and ten years old.

  “Mr. Darcy, sir, might we have a few minutes of your time?” Mrs. Reynolds asked.

  Sitting behind the great oak desk, looking between his son and his housekeeper but not wanting to leap to any conclusion, George Darcy said, “Of course.”

  “Thank you, sir,” Mrs. Reynolds said. She looked at Darcy and held his hand firmly in hers. She asked him to tell his father exactly what he had just recounted for her. Feeling more than a little frightened, Darcy looked into his father’s face and related again what he had heard while in the stable, all the while never once releasing his hold on Mrs. Reynolds’ hand or lowering his gaze from his father’s face.

  Patiently, Mr. Darcy looked at Mrs. Reynolds and said, “Thank you. Will you bring us some tea and cakes, please?” As she removed Darcy’s hand from within hers, Mrs. Reynolds patted it gently and left the study.

  Mr. Darcy rose from where he had been sitting in the big leather chair behind his desk. He moved to sit in one of several wingback chairs carefully arranged as a sitting area before the fireplace. He gestured for his son to take a seat in an identical chair directly across from him.

  Together they waited until Mrs. Reynolds returned a few minutes later with a tray laden with a tea service and Darcy’s favourite cakes, placing it on the small oak table between their chairs. Without another word, she left, closing the door quietly behind her.

  With deliberation, Mr. Darcy prepared a cup of tea and encouraged his son to do the same. Then, sitting back in his chair and looking carefully at Darcy, he said: “Fitzwilliam, my son, please do not be angry or uncomfortable with Mrs. Reynolds for bringing you to me. Many years ago, I asked her to do that very thing should you ever come to her to ask about your heritage.”

  Darcy’s hand began to shake so badly he feared that his cup would spill. So, before the tea could actually escape from his cup into his saucer or worse yet, the cup slip from his fingers entirely, he returned everything to the tray. He then sat back in his chair as his father had done. Although he was tall for his age, when he sat completely back his feet stuck out straight in front of him, so he chose to nudge himself forward a bit and sit with his feet hanging down. Although they still did not reach the floor, they were not sticking straight out like a child’s.

  George Darcy smiled at his son’s attempt to appear more mature. After another moment or two, he began to speak. “When I was about your age or maybe a bit older, my father spoke to me as I am going to speak to you now. If you are of an age to ask the question, then you are of an age to receive a truthful response.”

  Once again, Darcy began to feel sick, but he swallowed the bile and took a deep, restoring breath.

  “You, my son, are my one and true heir.” Relief coursed throughout Darcy’s body, but he knew there was more.

  Seeing the mixture of relief and lingering questions on the boy’s face, Mr. Darcy continued by describing the indiscretions of his own father. Alexander Darcy had been intimate with the daughter of one of the servants attached to a household neighboring Darcy House, the family’s townhome in London. When the girl had found herself with child, she and her father had sought out Alexander’s father, Claude Darcy, for help.

  When Claude Darcy asked the young girl directly if Alexander were the unborn child’s father, she looked pleadingly at her own father, lowered her eyes, and admitted that she could not be certain because she had been with another young man only a week or so before their assignation. Turning her eyes from the hurt and betrayal on her own father’s face, she looked directly at Alexander Darcy and she told him that she felt reasonably certain that he was, after all, not her child’s father.

  “MY GOD, Alexander,” Claude Darcy had bellowed. “Your entire future could have been ruined.”

  Alexander Darcy was devastated at being chastised in public and immediately apologized to the servant girl for having treated her so abominably. Then, he surprised all three of the people in the room by offering her his family’s assistance with her troubles. He offered to help find her a husband, if that was what she wanted, and insisted that he would look out for the child throughout his or her lifetime.

  Soon thereafter, the young woman married a young man who worked as a groomsman in the household where she was employed. A few months later the child was born, a son named John Wickham. The colour of his eyes and hair was similar to Alexander Darcy’s, but just as similar to that of the groomsman the young woman married. The child was never publicly recognized or acknowledged by the Darcy family, and the identity of his father was never truly known. The Darcy family preferred to believe that the young woman’s husband was, in truth, the child’s father.

  Still, Alexander Darcy bore the expense of providing an education for John Wickham. Eventually, Wickham earned employment as an assistant to the old steward at Pemberley who was nearing retirement.

  Fitzwilliam Darcy sat in stunned silence. Was it possible that old Mr. Wickham was really his uncle? But, the young woman had said that she felt certain that Alexander Darcy was not the father. Would she have said that if it were not really true? Why would George Wickham say that he was the heir? Surprised by his budding anger, Darcy looked at his father and asked, “What about George Wickham?”

  Mr. Darcy prepared another cup of tea before he answered. This part of the story was going to be more difficult. He said to Darcy: “Sarah Compton, George’s mother, was the daughter of one of the poorer tenants at Pemberley. To assist the family and help keep them from poverty, my mother suggested to Mrs. Wade, our former housekeeper that Sarah be brought into Pemberley House to be trained as an upstairs maid. U
nfortunately, Mrs. Wade soon discovered that, whenever I was in residence, Sarah seemed to linger outside my bedchamber door longer than necessary even for a thorough cleaning. Sometimes she would even appear in that part of the house when her duties directed her to be elsewhere.”

  Darcy’s eyes opened wide with astonishment. His mother had always taught him respect for all those who worked to make Pemberley a great estate. A few years ago, George Darcy had begun to talk to him about his personal comportment, not only with diligence and respect toward the female staff at Pemberley House or Darcy House, but wherever he might be. Because of this conversation with his father, Darcy had been made aware that not only did his own conduct need to be appropriate at all times, but he needed to be aware when another’s conduct was not.

  Mr. Darcy continued, “I had just begun to pay court to your mother, so my mother and Mrs. Wade set about finding another position for Sarah Compton. Our new steward, John Wickham, had mentioned to Father that he had determined that he should start looking for a wife. Mother suggested Sarah, whose parents were, of course, delighted with the arrangement, and Sarah married John Wickham within the month.”