Elizabeth Bennet's Impertinent Letter

by J P Christy

  Lady Penelope’s eyes met Fitzwilliam’s, and they lapsed into silent reverie. After several moments, the footman, who was new to his job, murmured to Lady Fitzwilliam, “Shall I remove this course, my lady?”

  “Yes, but very quietly,” she said softly, for the expression on her son’s face could only be described as sweet sadness. Without realizing he did so, Fitzwilliam took a deep drink of wine; his thoughts were full of the journey from Brighton.

  As the coach rattled past the Royal Pavilion, Lady Penelope, still dressed as Master Penn, relaxed into her seat and glanced at Fitzwilliam sitting opposite her. His legs were stretched out before him, his arms were crossed loosely on his chest, and his eyes were closed.

  Now that the dangers they had shared were a memory, now that she could think beyond the challenges of their journey—including the fear of being recognized by Sir Oscar—she found herself reflecting on Fitzwilliam’s character. He, unlike that other English gentleman, did not preen or pout or complain. Through his competence, his innate cheerfulness, and his willingness to listen to others, he had earned the trust of the desperate refugees from her household. And he had respected her as his compañera, his partner in their escape. Unconsciously, she gave a sigh of relief mixed with gratitude. I doubt I could have come this far this fast without you, Colonel.

  At the sound of her sigh, Fitzwilliam opened his eyes. “Are you well?”

  “This is the calmest I have felt in many months. Fear and worry have been my shadows, though I did not realize it until now, for the shadows are finally gone.”

  “Speaking as a soldier, I understand.”

  “I have a favor to ask—a small favor.”

  “You have my full attention.”

  Lady Penelope rummaged in her portmanteau and produced a silver flask, which she offered him. Fitzwilliam took it, noting the elegant scrollwork engraving on its front. Before he could comment, however, she asked, “Will you accept this from me, man to man?”

  “Madam, I—”

  “At the moment, I am still Master Penn.” When he did not respond, she added, “Please. It is important to me.”

  The colonel wanted the flask as a reminder of their adventures. “Then I am happy to have it, Master Penn.” As he turned the flask to examine it , the contents susurrated with the movement. “It is not empty.”

  “There is still a bit of port in it,” she said.

  “Enough for a toast to our successful escape from the French and Sir Oscar?”

  “I believe so.”

  Uncapping the flask, he offered it to her. “Ladies first, Master Penn.”

  She grinned and took a swallow before returning it to him. He raised the flask in toast to her before he drank. Pleasantly surprised at the taste, he said, “This is an exceptional port.”

  “And the next time we share a drink, may there be peace in Spain and Portugal.”

  “Amen, my lady, amen.”

  Following a simple dessert of cheesecake (her son’s favorite), Lady Fitzwilliam said, “With all due respect—and speaking as a mother—you both look dreadful. I encourage you to retire so that you may have a good night’s rest.” When she met Lady Penelope’s grateful gaze, she saw the younger woman had tears in her eyes.

  “Your ladyship, I am very appreciative that your son brought me here. Your kind care of me is just what I needed after …” Lady Penelope paused, looking at Fitzwilliam, “after all that has occurred. Thank you. Most sincerely, I thank you!”

  “Of course, my dear. If there is anything you require to be comfortable, let us know.”

  Fitzwilliam stood as Lady Penelope rose and dipped a small curtsy to her hostess and another curtsy to him. “I shall see you in the morning,” she said and exited the dining room.

  He was still staring after her when Lady Fitzwilliam, now standing, touched his arm. “I think you were right, Christopher; Lady Penelope could do better than the second son of an earl.”

  Clapping a hand to his chest, he declared in mock despair, “From the lips of my own mother! Madam, you wound me.”

  “On the subject of wounds, Christopher, where is this most recent one—the one attended to by Lady Penelope’s manservant?”

  “My leg.”

  “As the mother of three sons, I am not easily shocked.”

  Fitzwilliam stepped away and turned his back to her. Touching a place on his left thigh very near his buttock, he said, “There. Good night, Mother.” Embarrassed that he felt embarrassed, he exited without a backward look so that she could not see his blush.

  ≈≈≈

  Fitzwilliam, smartly dressed in clean regimentals, was contemplating the offerings on the sideboard. Sensing Lady Penelope’s presence as she entered, he turned. “Good morning, fellow traveler. Did you sleep well?”

  “Very well, thank you.” Returning his smile, she joined him at the sideboard and gave a delighted laugh. “I have not seen some of these foods since I moved to Spain.”

  “If there is a particular dish you want, I will ask Cook.”

  “Oh, no. As it is, I shall have difficulty choosing.” Her tone was cheerful yet subdued, for she felt constrained now that she and the colonel were again a lady and a gentleman in England.

  Fitzwilliam also sensed the formality between them, and it saddened him. Quietly, he said, “This morning, my mother sent a note to Lord Trelawney informing him we will arrive at noon. She will join us, as she wishes to meet your family.”

  Lady Penelope nodded, and when their eyes met, each looked away quickly. Her voice was gently mocking when she said, “Your mother’s presence will provide an aura of acceptance which will shelter me from the taint of scandal. And as you have seen, she has very kindly provided me with several dresses. Between the gifts of respectable clothing and her tacit approval, it seems Lady Fitzwilliam has more care for my reputation than I do. What must you think of me, sir?”

  “I think—that is, I know—you are above reproach, madam.”

  “Thank you.”

  “And should our recent adventures call your reputation into question, I would be honored to offer you my hand in marriage.”

  Blushing, Lady Penelope turned her face away from him for a moment. “You are all kindness and consideration. My husband would have liked you.” Abruptly, she laughed just as tears began to run down her cheeks. Fanning her face with both hands, she exclaimed, “I have scarcely shed a tear in the past few months, but since arriving here, I have cried three times!”

  To allow her a moment to compose herself, the colonel turned his attention to the food. “What must you think of my character?” he asked lightly. “As you are well aware, I lied to Sir Oscar, whom some would say was my superior.”

  “That fellow will never be your equal let alone your superior,” she said quickly. Taking a plate, she served herself eggs, sausage, and a scone.

  When she referred to Sir Oscar as “that fellow,” Fitzwilliam smiled. “Well, not only did I deceive him, I appropriated his pistols and traded them to a pirate!” As he filled his plate, he continued, “I have a cousin who is quite morally rigid. His name is Fitzwilliam Darcy, and I am certain he would not approve.”

  “Your cousin’s first name is Fitzwilliam, and your surname is Fitzwilliam?”

  “Yes, my cousin is Fitzwilliam Edward Darcy. I am Christopher Richard Fitzwilliam, and my father, the Earl of Kesteven, is Wesley Robert Henry Fitzwilliam. Now, my oldest brother is Robert Edward Fitzwilliam, and my youngest brother … well, at the moment I cannot remember what we call him, but if I had to guess, it would be some combination of the names I’ve already mentioned,” he joked. “I know what you are thinking—that we are a tragically unimaginative family.”

  “When you are with your cousin, what do you call each other?”

  “I call him Darcy; he calls me Fitz, except when we are insulting each other. Then I am Comical Christopher, and he is Lord Darcy the Dull.”

  “In my experience, morally rigid people have not been tested beyond their expec
tations of life’s challenges. Of course, I speak as one who has never met your cousin, but I suspect he may be somewhat untested and, therefore, unprepared. Thus, when he is presented with a situation such as I presented you—a demanding damsel in distress—it will be interesting to see how Mr. Darcy responds. For the good of his character, I hope he is challenged. Does that make me sound unkind?”

  “Not at all. I believe in the character-building ability of adversity.”

  Lady Fitzwilliam entered the dining room just in time to hear her son’s comment. “Character-building adversity at breakfast? Are the eggs overcooked? Is there no coffee?”

  “I am dazzled by the offerings, my lady, as I have had far fewer choices of late,” Lady Penelope said quickly. “And allow me to reiterate my thanks for the dress I am wearing this morning.”

  “I am sorry I had nothing in black for you, but that shade of green looks so lovely with your eyes, my dear. If you wish an introduction to my modiste, I would be happy to do so.” To her son, she said, “Kindly note, sir, Cook not only prepared extra scones, but she set some aside for Lady Penelope and me, knowing that if you came to breakfast before us, the usual batch would have been consumed to the last crumb.”

  Fitzwilliam rolled his eyes. “And you still hold my childhood transgressions against me.”

  For the remainder of the meal, the three engaged in pleasant conversation, in which they discovered mutual acquaintances and touched upon Lady Penelope’s plans for her daughter, Renata. Lady Penelope was impressed with Lady Fitzwilliam’s breadth of information about the world she had left behind, and she was grateful to have her knowledge refreshed.

  ≈≈≈

  It was just before noon when the carriage rolled to a stop in front of Trelawney Hall, where a footman was waiting to assist the ladies out. When Fitzwilliam exited, he found his mother and Lady Penelope staring at the black wreath on the front door. “Is that for your husband?” he asked.

  “But how could that be? I had not written to my brother of Salvador’s death.” The three ascended the broad steps to the front door, which opened before they reached it. Lady Penelope hurried inside while Fitzwilliam escorted his mother in.

  Lord Cadan Trelawney was waiting in the foyer; he was tall and lean, and he shared his sister’s coloring of light brown hair and green eyes. Although he embraced her stiffly, his voice was heavy with emotion. “Oh, Penelope, I was not certain you would receive my letter, but here you are! Thank you for coming. Your calming presence will mean the world to Gwen.” It was several moments before he looked beyond his sister to his visitors.

  When Trelawney’s eyes met Lady Fitzwilliam’s, she stepped forward. “Good day, my lord. My husband, the Earl of Kesteven, introduced us last year. And this is our son, Colonel Christopher Fitzwilliam.”

  Trelawney released his sister and bowed. “Yes, I recall, Lady Fitzwilliam. It is a pleasure to see you again. I was delighted to receive word that you would be bringing my sister to me.” To Fitzwilliam, he gave a friendly nod, “Sir,” which the colonel returned as the men shook hands.

  Courtesies completed, Lady Penelope said, “I received no letter from you, Cadan. Please, tell me who has died.”

  In a strained voice, he replied, “Providence must have sent you. Gwen gave birth to a son two months ago; the boy lived but ten days. Now, Gwen … it is as if the life has gone out of her.”

  When Lady Penelope’s glance flickered to the Fitzwilliams, Lady Fitzwilliam spoke. “Forgive me, Lord Trelawney, but I could not help but overhear. May I offer our sincerest condolences at this difficult time. We shall not impose upon you. However, your sister is such a delightful lady, that I insisted upon accompanying her today.”

  “Thank you, madam,” Trelawney said.

  To Lady Penelope, she said, “I hope you will visit me again; I have enjoyed your company.”

  “You are most kind, my lady.”

  The butler, who had been in the process of dispatching a maid for tea, now signaled her to wait. While the butler spoke quietly to his employer, Lady Fitzwilliam glanced at her son and then at Lady Penelope. In a flash of intuition, she knew the intensely intimate experience they had shared demanded as private a farewell as could be managed under the circumstances. Thus, after the butler and maid left, she stepped closer to Trelawney.

  “We shall leave you to your reunion with your sister, my lord, but first, may I prevail upon you to tell me very briefly where you obtained that Chinese vase in the corner? I wish to procure one for my husband’s study,” Lady Fitzwilliam lied, well aware that making such a trivial request in the face of a family tragedy was one of the rudest things she had ever done.

  At the sound of Lady Fitzwilliam’s voice, Lady Penelope and Fitzwilliam glanced at her and saw that both she and Lord Trelawney now had their backs to them. I don’t know if that was by accident or design, Mother, but thank you! Fitzwilliam thought.

  He moved quickly toward Lady Penelope, who met him in the center of the foyer and offered her gloved hand. Fitzwilliam lightly kissed the inside of her wrist just above where her short gloves ended. It was an unconscious desire for a physical expression of his deep regard. The dangers, uncertainties, and moments of humor they had shared were events that he had not experienced with a woman before. Softly, he said, “Should you ever need the services of a soldier, my lady, I hope you will write to me.”

  She smiled. “Should you ever need the company of a friend, sir, I hope you will write to me.” Her fingers, which had been relaxed, now stiffened. He understood the gesture and released her hand.

  A moment later, Lady Fitzwilliam said softly, “Christopher, we must go now.”

  As they exited, they heard Trelawney ask, “Is Salvador still in Salamanca? Renata will be disappointed; she has been looking forward to showing her father her improvement in playing guitar.” However, the door closed before the Fitzwilliams heard Lady Penelope’s reply.

  After several silent minutes in the carriage, Lady Fitzwilliam said, “I like Lady Penelope. She is intelligent and gracious. Do you think she would suit Robert?”

  He gave his mother a shocked look. “Robert, my brother?”

  “No, my boy. Robert the Bruce, king of Scotland, who has been dead for nearly 500 years. Of course, your brother!”

  “No! Robert and Lady Penelope would not suit at all.”

  “Why not?”

  “He would prefer someone younger.”

  “What about you? Would you prefer someone younger?”

  He scowled at her. “I know what you are asking, Mother.”

  “I hope so! Else you would not have sufficient wit to be of use to your fellow soldiers.”

  “As I told you yesterday, I would be agreeable to offering for Lady Penelope.”

  “You would be agreeable,” she repeated dryly.

  “Mother—”

  “At any rate, I intend to remain in contact with the lady—casually, of course—but perhaps I can be of assistance as she eases back into society. Besides, if you return to Spain, which I fear you will, she can explain to me how things are there.”

  “Lord Trelawney seemed quite relieved to see her.”

  “Yes … how did he put it? ‘Your presence will mean the world to Gwen.’”

  “‘Your calming presence,’” he corrected automatically.

  Lady Fitzwilliam permitted herself a satisfied smile. “I believe you are right.”

  Fitzwilliam wondered, Will Lady Penelopebe able to mourn her own losses while attending to the demands of her brother’s family? Aloud, he said, “I hope Lady Penelope finds peace and happiness here.”

  “I hope the same for you. But what do you hope for yourself?” Lady Fitzwilliam asked. With a small shrug, Fitzwilliam turned his gaze to stare out the window.

  August 25: Meryton, England, Hertfordshire; Miss Elizabeth Bennet

  At age 20, Miss Elizabeth Bennet was the second eldest of the five unmarried daughters of a country gentleman with a small estate called Longbourn, near the
town of Meryton in the county of Hertfordshire. Alone in the bedroom she shared with her oldest sister, Jane, Elizabeth wore an irrepressible grin as she wrote a letter to her friend, for she possessed a lively playful disposition that delighted in anything ridiculous.

  Dear Charlotte, I am in disgrace — again — for my impertinence. Although perhaps someday, Mama will explain to me why she considers my liveliness to be impertinent while Lydia’s impertinence she considers liveliness. (I urge you to pause and envision my youngest sister.) No doubt Lydia’s youth — you may recall that she was but fifteen on her last birthday—gives her license that is denied to my advanced years. Well, after writing this letter, I shall take a long walk, probably to Oakham Mount, which will no doubt restore my mood, for, as you have told me, I am not made for ill humor. How are you faring in your visit with your Bristol relatives? I hope to visit there some-day. I should very much like to see Avon Gorge and the lovely countryside. While I have always enjoyed my visits to London, I should feel quite bereft if I were required to spend the majority of my days in a city where I did not have an opportunity to ramble in the beauties of nature. There is some news here — Uncle Phillips has arranged for the letting of Netherfield Park at last, and all of Meryton is abuzz with speculations. The lessor, who will arrive next month, is a Mr. Charles Bingley, said to be a man who is both single and wealthy. Although Mr. Bingley has yet to occupy the estate, one rumor has it that his party will consist of twelve ladies and seven gentlemen. As you may imagine, this has upset Mama very much. She says we must hope his party actually consists of twelve gentlemen and seven ladies, the latter, ideally, will be old and plain and disinterested in marriage. It is rumors such as these that have inspired Mama to entreat Jane to make every effort to secure a husband from among our soon-to-be neighbors. Sight unseen, character unknown, marital status unconfirmed—yet Mama has declared that matches must be made! She insists, “It is a truth universally acknowledged that a single man in possession of a good fortune must be in want of a wife!” You know me — I could not help myself — I began quizzing her: What if there was only one gentleman; which of the five Bennet daughters had the first claim? Jane, of course, Mama said, as she is the oldest and prettiest. “What if he fancies the youngest?” Lydia asked. (Impertinently, I thought.) Mama quickly assured her that were this to be the case, then Lydia could keep whomever she managed to catch. I asked if we might be allowed to decline the gentleman if he proved to be unpleasant, disreputable, dissolute, or unhygienic. Mama said that no man was perfect and that the attentions of the right wife could set him straight. As you may suppose, I briefly considered asking Mama if she believed her influence on Papa to be evidence that perhaps she was not the right wife for him. Of course, I did not give voice to this line of inquiry. Instead, I asked how we should approach the matter if the gentleman were already married. Would Mama prefer that her daughter marry a divorced man or a widower? At that question, Mama was utterly flummoxed. After several moments of shocked silence, she reiterated her favorite lament that because her daughters could not inherit Longbourn, we would be flung into the hedgerows upon Papa’s demise. Accusing me of inspiring a riot of tremblings and flutterings within her bosom, she encouraged — well, “demanded” is a more accurate description — that I leave her presence. Sometimes I believe the only things my mother and I have in common are our dark eyes and our dislike of decorating a pigeon pie with the late pigeon’s feet. So here I am writing to you, dear Charlotte. Let me close by assuring you that should you, upon your return, be the lady who captures the heart of our prospective neighbor, I shall be well pleased on your behalf, and I will wish you every happiness. Fondly, Elizabeth