Fitzwilliam and Elizabeth

by Greer Boyd

  Utterly astounded by the amount of the monthly stipend, Charlotte had candidly insisted it was far too much. Anne simply laughed, patted her hand, and declared, “It is already done.” Charlotte could only smile in resignation and say, “Thank you.”

  Charlotte had been in her employ only a short while when Anne contacted Mr. Grove again. She transferred her dowry of £40,000 to her companion and had him invest the entire portion in such a manner that any and all returns would be accrued and added back to the total and reinvested. That way, should she either remain single or decide to marry, she would have additional money of her own in a fund that would continue to grow. Whenever Charlotte left service, she would be able to live very well off of the interest alone.

  Ever thorough, and caring in her personal as well as her business dealings, Anne also had Mr. Grove make additional provisions in her will to divide the bulk of her personal investments between Charlotte and her cousin Richard Fitzwilliam: Charlotte would receive thirty percent of the investments under the same conditions as her settlement, and Richard would inherit Rosings Park and its wealth, along with five and sixty percent of the investments. Now, seeing Richard’s reaction to Charlotte and her equally telling response to him, Anne began to feel that perhaps the bulk of her fortune might remain virtually intact.

  The ladies and Colonel Fitzwilliam, enjoying each other’s company, continued to converse in the sitting room until it was necessary for him to return to his military duties, and for two of the four ladies to take their place in Elizabeth’s bedchamber.

  ∞∞∞

  It was mid-afternoon when the two children awoke from their naps. They were assisted while they refreshed themselves and were then dressed for the second half of the day. But soon, after playing together for a while, Anne Elizabeth took Thomas by the hand and, as both children looking up at her nurse, she declared, “Mama.”

  Since she was not privy to what had transpired earlier in the day, Nurse Harriett had no idea what to think of this. Standing with her back very straight, she clutched her hands ever so slightly before asking the young maid, who had just brought fresh linen, to find Miss Georgiana and bid her to come to the nursery. Georgiana was in her study when the young maid located her.

  When she entered the nursery, she saw Anne Elizabeth calmly holding Thomas’ hand, and listened as Nurse Harriett recounted the little girl’s request. Georgiana knelt down on the colourful rug covering the nursery room floor and ever gently grasped the child’s elbows. “Where do you want to go, Anne Elizabeth?”

  “Mama,” replied the little girl, and her beribboned curls bounced when both she and Thomas simultaneously held up their arms to Georgiana, who stood up and smiled broadly. “I will take care of them,” she assured Nurse Harriett, and then asked Nurse Lauren, who cared for Thomas, to accompany her should she need assistance with the boy, who, of course, hardly knew her.

  “Of course ma’am. It would be my pleasure,” replied the young woman, a bit puzzled at the scene before her, but careful to be as gracious as her station required. Briskly, she bobbed a curtsy and followed the young woman who was leading the children from the nursery.

  The muslin of her day gown swished softly with each step as Georgiana walked toward the guest bedchamber, a child on each side, their small hands snugly tucked within her own. She thought, “I wonder what they will do when they see Wills and Elizabeth in the same room.”

  When she reached the bottom of the stairs, she released the children’s hands and slowed her gait, but continued to walk closely behind them. Anne Elizabeth increased her speed, as the tap, tap, tap, of her little slippers echoed down the hallway along with the thump, thump, thump, of Thomas’ boots. When she reached the door to the guest bedchamber, she gently patted it, crying, “Mama.”

  Looking over his shoulder at Georgiana, his silver eyes shining, Thomas insisted, “In.”

  Georgiana gently knocked on the door, unsure who might respond and what their reaction might be. Anne answered, noted the curious look on her young cousin’s face, and looked down to see the two children waiting patiently. Smiling knowingly at Georgiana, she opened the door wide enough to admit them, as Thomas’ nurse followed.

  With no hesitation and without looking at anyone else in the room, Anne Elizabeth walked to the bed and, holding her arms in the air, softly pled, “Mama.”

  When Darcy heard her request, knowing that she could not see him, given the position of his chair in the room, he called softly to her, “No, Sweeting.” But right away, he was distracted by Thomas, standing resolutely before him, raising his arms in a mirror image of his small friend, and saying “Papa.” Darcy reached down for the little boy and explained again, “No, Sweeting,” as he picked the lad up and set him on his knee.

  “Anne Elizabeth, come to Papa,” he requested. When she obediently turned from the bed and came to him, he placed her on his other knee.

  “Sweeting, Mrs. Mills is not ‘Mama’ and, Master Thomas, I am not your ‘Papa,’” he told them, moving his gaze from one to the other. But, the children simply looked at him as though he did not know what he was talking about, and both hugged him tightly around the neck.

  ∞∞∞

  “What was that?” Elizabeth asked though no words were spoken aloud. It had to be a thought . . . she heard no sound, felt no sensation. For some time now, she had been wondering if she was truly still alive, and even now she could not be sure. There . . . there it was again . . . something almost tangible, but not quite . . . floating through her mind . . . she could only think of it as . . . what? Something akin to a thread . . . But what was it? Strange . . . all of this blackness . . . it was oppressive, thick and heavy . . . and it seemed almost like it was pulling her away . . . away from the ‘thread.’ Was it a thought? No . . . a feeling.

  “Where . . . where had she had that feeling before? Where? She had been young . . . yes, very young . . . sitting on a man’s shoulder. She could see another man . . . on a platform above her. What . . . what was he doing? He had a cloth . . . a piece of some kind of cloth in his hand. It looked like flowing water . . . the way it ebbed and swirled . . . almost running through his fingers . . . over his hands. He was rubbing the cloth over . . . over the sleeve of his woolen greatcoat . . . and it seemed to . . . stick there. He pulled it away . . . and there was a sound. . . a popping, a crackling sound . . . as though the cloth protested . . . letting the man know it wanted to stay on the sleeve. That was it . . . it did not want to leave . . . it was protesting its removal. He put the cloth on his sleeve again . . . pulled it away and held it over her head. At first . . . she was frightened. It felt as though hundreds of ants were crawling . . . crawling all over her body. From the corner of her eye, she could see some of her hair float up to meet the cloth. She felt tingly. . . and itchy . . . all at the same time. She remembered that she had laughed. ‘Again,’ she said. And the man did it again. That was what the thread was. It was like that tingly and itchy feeling from long ago, something she had enjoyed very much . . . And she wanted it again.

  “Oh . . . the blackness. She tried to push it away, but it was like thick billowy clouds. Her hands felt nothing. The blackness only coalesced around her, swirling in the currents that the motions of her hands had made. She knew what she would do. She would concentrate on the thread . . . the feeling . . . follow it wherever it went . . . and . . . and grab it . . . if she could. There it was again, almost within her grasp, but not quite. If she could only move away from the blackness, she knew that she could see the thread better. She concentrated with all her might.

  “What . . . had the blackness changed? Was it a deep gray now instead of the oppressive blackness? The billowy clouds in front of her were perceptibly lighter. What was that . . . something moving . . . in the cloud before her? It was a dark shape . . . almost like the shape of what? Of a man . . . Maybe he could help her . . . if she could get to him. She felt herself go to him . . . almost as if she were floating. Just as she was about to reach for his should
er, he turned around. The face looked familiar . . . snickering . . . jeering . . . leering . . . taunting her. ‘Stay with me,’ said the face. She tried to pull away, as the black shadow of a hand grasped for her, trying to pull her back into the blackness.

  “Then she recognized the face. ‘Wickham,’ she screamed and fought to get away from the disembodied face and hand as both raced toward her, then flew . . . away . . . to be lost within the gray cloud. Where was the thread? She had lost it. The evil face had caused her to lose sight of the place where the thread had been. Wickham . . . that was the evil face, But, who . . . who was she? What did the evil face want with her?

  “She drifted through the clouds, and they continued to lighten. They were only slightly gray in colour now. There . . . there it was again . . . a thread, but . . . not the first one . . . the one that she had followed from the depth of the blackness . . . the one that felt like . . . what had it felt like? Now she knew. It felt like desire, a deep unfulfilled, unsatisfied want. Yes . . . yes she knew that feeling very well. It seemed as though her whole life flashed before her, and she relived it in a moment. She was Lizzy, Elizabeth Bennet. But she was someone else as well. Who else was she? She was Mrs. Elizabeth Mills, and she began to remember.”

  A little over three years ago, Elizabeth’s beloved father had suffered a stroke, and his health had steadily declined thereafter. Mr. Bennet, bedridden and unable to use the left side of his body, knew that his death was not immediate, but that the surety of it was not so far off either. With that knowledge in mind, he requested a private conference with Elizabeth that morning right after she broke her fast.

  “Lizzy, my child, I must speak with you about a matter of great importance,” he insisted as she entered his bedchamber and quickly took his right hand into her own. “Please close the door.”

  “Of course, Papa,” she replied quickly. She crossed the room and firmly pushed the door shut, checked that it was secure, then returned to her seat beside the bed, and recaptured his hand.

  Slightly turning his head so that he could more fully look at her, he began, “Lizzy, you know I love all of you girls, but I freely admit that you have always been the most special to me, perhaps because you are the one most like me. I know that you are also the most practical and have the greatest strength of will.”

  A swell of apprehension began to engulf Elizabeth. She fought the urge to run to Oakham Mount, her place of refuge.

  “All of you are aware that as soon as I am dead and gone, Mr. Collins, who is the heir of the entail on Longbourn, has the right to turn you all out. I have no doubt that he will do just that.”

  Elizabeth started to speak, but he withdrew his still-functioning hand from within hers and raised it to rest his fingers on her lips to stay her. He looked into her troubled face and continued, “Lizzy, I am going to ask you do that which I have always told you I would never do.”

  Her face began to pale and her chest felt as though it were circled around with a great band that suddenly tightened to restrict her breathing. “Surely he is not going to ask me to marry Mr. Collins. It cannot be. Oh, please, Papa, do not ask me to do that,” she thought.

  As the tumult of emotions scrolled across her brow, her father resumed, “I know what you are thinking.”

  As she looked into eyes so very much like her own, Elizabeth thought to herself, “Oh no, Papa. You do not.”

  “You are thinking that I will ask you to marry Mr. Collins,” looking into her face where he saw the surety of her thoughts, he said succinctly, “but I will not. Lizzy, I have always maintained I would never force any of my daughters into a marriage she does not desire, contrary to what your mother might think.” He smiled and even started to laugh, showing the slightest bit of his old humor before again turning somber. “But because you are practical as well as strong-willed, I am encouraging you to marry.”

  On hearing this, she was so unnerved by the sudden shock that she could barely comprehend what he meant. “Oh, good God,” she thought to herself as her heart pounded in her chest, but she murmured aloud, “Papa, what do you mean?”

  “Mr. Jerome Mills has approached your Uncle Gardiner to determine if you might respond favourably, should he ask for your hand in marriage,” her father continued, now too discomfited to meet her gaze, as he looked through the window into the flower garden.

  She thought about her family, and knew instinctively that he would never have asked this of her unless their situation was dire. Since her father had not produced an heir, a son, to break the entail, she had long known that upon his death she, her sisters, and her mother could, and most assuredly would, be thrown virtually into the hedge row by Mr. Collins, her distant cousin on whom the estate was entailed. Marrying Jerome Mills was truly the only way to rescue her family, since Jane, her older sister, had not been approached by a suitor mainly because of their almost paltry dowry and the remaining sisters, save one, were too young to marry.

  Also, she knew that her mother, having wanted all of her daughters to marry wealthy, titled gentlemen, would not be pleased in the least. Uncle Edward’s friend was in trade and not the “gentleman” that Mrs. Bennett sought “for her girls.”

  Elizabeth quickly remembered what she knew of Jerome Mills: He had worked for another company for many years and had finally begun his own import-export business, Mills Ventures, about ten years ago. He netted well above £5,000 a year, or at least that was what she had heard when she had met him at a London dinner party given months earlier by the Gardiners for their friends and partners in trade. Although Jerome was more than twenty years Elizabeth’s senior, they did enjoy each other’s company.

  Mr. Bennet watched as her free hand pulled at her lace collar and a series of emotions caused the edges of her mouth to shudder, then he saw it, the resignation in her eyes. Her eyes had always been the pathway to her soul, if only one knew to look there. They were the deepest darkest blue that he had ever seen, darker even than his own, though many people thought them to be black.

  “My dearest daughter, I would not have asked this of you, if I did not know of a surety that I will not be here much longer,” he explained, removing his feeling hand from her grasp to rest it over his chest.

  “Oh, Papa, do not say such things,” cried Elizabeth, as she reached for his hand again and softly kissed the back.

  “Nonetheless, it is true and the only reason I ask this sacrifice of you. You alone may be able to save your sisters when my time comes.” He gently pulled her to him.

  She leaned over to kiss her father’s cheek, and releasing his hand, rose to her full height, which even at a mere five foot two inches seemed to take on a regal demeanor. It never ceased to amaze Mr. Bennet that, although Elizabeth was by far the most diminutive of his daughters, by several inches, she had always had a way of making the difference in height almost indiscernible.

  “Papa,” she turned to him with the resignation he had noted in her voice but full resolve in her comportment, “I will write to Uncle Gardiner notifying him of my acceptance. The rest I leave to the two of you to determine.”

  Her father’s eyes misted, as he simply nodded his head in affirmation. Images filled his mind as he thought of his favourite child, “How many of her dreams were lost at that moment?”

  Elizabeth hurried toward her room, where she gathered her pelisse, bonnet, and gloves, in preparation for leaving Longbourn House, the house that would soon no longer be hers. As her walk took her to Oakham Mount, she realized this was where she had done some of her most delicious dreaming. She had always dreamed of marrying that one person her soul cried out for, the one she was destined to love forever, the one who would return that love in equal measure. But now that would be a dream left unfilled. She had long known that it was highly unlikely she would ever meet anyone who would take her for her small dowry and her superb intellect, neither attribute in fashion for a young unmarried woman, and for love as well. Still, Jerome Mills had asked, and she had accepted although she had not yet writ
ten to her uncle to notify him of her decision.

  “At twenty,” she uttered firmly to the old oak tree, “I will be the first of my sisters to marry.” After another few minutes, she almost cried, “Good God. At twenty, I will be taking on the weight of responsibility for the rest of my family.”

  As she spoke her thoughts out loud, she started to tremble. She took off her bonnet and sat down in the makeshift seat formed by the tangled roots of her favourite oak, so that the tree seemed to caress her and helped to soothe her mind. Ever the realist, she sat hugging herself, embraced all around by the mighty roots. She could not help the feeling of loss that already clung to her, but she had hope. She hoped that eventually maybe one of her dreams might come true, and she would have a child to love.

  Returning to Longbourn House several hours later, she sat at her writing desk, took out her stock of paper, checked the contents of her inkwell, sharpened the nib of her quill, and wrote to her uncle.

  Edward Gardiner

  One Gracechurch Street

  Cheapside

  London

  Dear Uncle,

  After speaking with Papa, I have decided to accept Mr. Mills’ offer of marriage. Although, I know that you are acting in Papa’s stead in this matter, I would prefer that both you and Mr. Mills travel to Longbourn, so that Papa may sign the settlement papers himself and also meet with Mr. Mills.