By Bethany Delleman
Chapter 31 – February 1815, Hunsford
Charlotte Collins held the letter from her mother in trembling hands as she read the news within. It would be at least four more weeks until the child mentioned would be christened, but Lady Lucas had every expectation that he would survive the confinement and enter the church with his mother. She assured her daughter that both seemed to have undertaken their trials without much difficulty, and that the boy was growing well.
Charlotte’s careful plans for her married life seemed now overthrown. Her fondest hope, that she might return to Hertfordshire and live in the comfort of Longbourn, were ended. She would never again be within an easy distance of her family and childhood friends. Her prospects in Kent had been falling as well since the decline and ultimate death of Anne. Lady Catherine, so pleased with her nephew and his wife, extended invitations less and less to the parsonage. The Hursts had been in residence and Caroline and Louisa were often able to tempt friends to visit from London.
With Lady Catherine requiring less of her rector, Mr. Collins spent more time at home and in Charlotte’s company. He was despondent, separated from the good favour of his patroness and the prospect of future inheritance. Charlotte could not know what was to be done. His reputation did little to recommend him in the neighbourhood, for he was seen by most as he was: ill-informed and wanting in ability for conversation. Charlotte had very few equals that she was able to visit. She had only young William, her poultry, and her various acts of charity to fill her days.
“Do you think my dear,” she asked one evening, hoping beyond hope that he might attend to her, “That we might secure another living, perhaps one in Hertfordshire? You will find our savings to be almost equal to the task. Perhaps in a year or two?”
Mr. Collins looked somewhat affronted, “No, I cannot think of it. Lady Catherine has shown us such condescension. She was resolved that I must go at some time, if I was to inherit Longbourn. Now that it will not fall our way, she has expressed delight in having us constantly nearby.”
Charlotte pressed further, “She cannot expect us to remain in the same manner forever. If there is not another living to bestow, we might rightly seek elsewhere.”
“You know as well as I that Lady Catherine is the patroness of three livings. We only now possess two of them.”
“That rector is only forty years old; it is not a good prospect.”
“I cannot imagine another patron showing us such unequalled kindness,” said he.
“Of course, I would never imply that Lady Catherine is anything but attentive. Yet, you must feel that her attention towards us is diminished, of late.”
“Is it not natural that she would be delighted with her nephew and his new wife? She speaks of them to me constantly, on my small visits. I have taken some care to arrange delicate compliments for the new Mrs. de Bourgh. I am sure they will invite us with more regularity soon.”
Charlotte could not continue, clever as she was. There was no convincing her husband of Lady Catherine’s indifference towards them of late. Mr. Collins believed he must only work harder to please Colonel and Mrs. de Bourgh. He did not understand what Charlotte knew, Mrs. de Bourgh had no pleasure in his company. She preferred sensible people.
A week after Charlotte learned of the Bennet’s son, Lady Catherine condescended to visit their cottage and joined them for tea. She, having been away for some time, had much to see and speak of and many small hints of improvement to distribute to the listening Collinses. She extended them an invitation to dine at Rosings that Sunday, and Charlotte’s hopes were raised before the lady added, “For Mrs. de Bourgh and my nephew are to be gone for a month to town, they are eager to see some friends and I cannot always keep them here. I gave up my house in London when my husband’s health declined but they will stay at the home of the Hursts. Travel is something I cannot often abide, so I am pleased that you will be able to make up the table.”
Mr. Collins replied eagerly, “We are always at your service Lady Catherine, I am sorry to hear that you have found yourself in this unfortunate situation.”
“You know I must allow young people their diversions, whatever the cost is to me. It is my highest pleasure to see Colonel and Mrs. de Bourgh in good spirits.”
Never had Charlotte felt the insult of their invitations so dearly. That they were often included only to make up a table or fill a dinner party had always been apparent, but to have it said so plainly was mortifying. The change in her connection was felt dearly; the new Mrs. de Bourgh clearly had no need of Charlotte. The Colonel, though he had seemed a friend, did not remember them. This was to be her lot, the second choice for a capricious lady until her passing and then nothing at all to the new residents of Rosings. Charlotte felt entirely bereft. She had chosen a man that only a person such as Lady Catherine could truly appreciate, and her favour had come to an end.
Charlotte attended the dinner, dined in the manner they had before Anne’s parting and felt the strangeness of its familiarity and difference. Lady Catherine was still in the black of mourning, Mrs. Jenkinson was gone, and signs of Caroline’s influence were becoming evident in the new fittings of the room, but the conversation was all the same. Charlotte answered when spoken to and provided, without much thought, all the civility that was asked of her. Her thoughts could only turn to one subject where joy still lay, her dear son. All else was misery.
Morning Post March 11, 1815 (Source: newspapers.com)
Dear Mother,
I write with the most exciting news; we are to be deployed to Belgium! Think what an adventure it shall be! Wickham is trying to tell me that I will not go, that I should stay with Lizzy or yourself, but I will have my own way. To go to the continent! I think it shall be monstrous fun. I am sure to know all the new styles several months before a soul in England! I promise to purchase you something très nouvelle.
I regret to say, there are expenses that come with such a venture. May I hope that dear Papa will not hesitate to forward some of my yearly allowance early? Or if you find it within yourselves to do something more, in this exciting situation, it will not go amiss.
Yours ever, Lydia
Kitty,
We are to go to Belgium! Do you not die with envy? I had always hoped to visit the continent and now I go without a single expense to myself. Wickham is very cross but I pay him no mind. I wish you could come! But write me soon about all your beaux and if I have time, I shall send you all the news from abroad. I am all excitement! But I must go, there is a ball tonight and I am sure Col. W. shall be there.
If you would not mind, suggest to Lizzy that I could use a few pounds to purchase clothes for the journey. I shall find you something lovely if I can in Brussels.
Lydia
Chapter 32 – March 1815, Pemberley
Both of the young men made their appearance over the next few weeks either at Pemberley or their family home when the Darcys travelled there for visits. Elizabeth, who was entirely resolved not to interfere, only watched with complacency as she saw that Henry Fitzwilliam especially seemed particularly taken with Kitty. Captain Ramsey she became less certain; he was generally agreeable but from the way he spoke, she sometimes doubted if he meant to settle or was simply enjoying good company before returning to sea. This event made all the more likely by the recent declaration of war.
Elizabeth said very little to her sisters, determined to let everything take its course. To her husband she made a few observations one evening, to which he replied, “I would be happy to see my cousin settled so early in life, but if Captain Ramsey is thinking seriously about Georgiana, which I have suspected for some time, I am not certain I would approve the alliance.”
“Not approve?” cried Elizabeth, “I am not certain he has distinguished her, but what objection could be made? He is a very agreeable young man.”
“Agreeable he may be, but he has always been devoted to his profession above all else. I cannot fault him for it as a friend or a citizen of the kingdom, but as a brother it is not something I would want for Georgiana.”
Elizabeth nodded, “And such a profession.”
“A profession which demands a heavy cost of its wives; I may not object in another case.”
Elizabeth nearly laughed, “Would not you? Have you not always had high expectations for your sister?”
“Why should I not? I cannot judge any man as above my sister’s merits.”
Elizabeth only smiled and said nothing. It may all come to nothing and she had fears that the war would take Captain Ramsey out of their presence sooner than they all had hoped. Until there was a proposal, it was better not to dwell on the matter. She stoutly resolved to say nothing more. Her admirable plan of non-interference was undermined by the fact that Georgiana was raising Kitty’s expectations in a benevolent, but ill-advised plan to improve her spirits.
“Did you not think that Captain Ramsey was admiring your playing particularly yesterday?” said she.
“We were playing together and he spoke, I thought, to us both,” said Kitty, with some hesitation.
“You may not have had a proper view from the pianoforte, but I am sure his eyes were directed at you for at least half the song.”
Kitty blushed.
“And my cousin sought you out directly when they joined us in the drawing room.”
To this Kitty could agree, for she perceived herself much more of a pointed regard in his manner, “Yes, he was telling me of the little trees he has planted near the parsonage. There is to be a handsome arbour someday.”
“When we stay with my uncle soon, I think it would be in our power to visit the parsonage or at least view the grounds.”
“Oh! That would be very nice,” said Kitty, “I should very much like to see the shrubbery.”
“I really do think both men are very much in love with you,” Georgiana observed.
“Truly? But do you not think- that it is possible- I might suppose that Captain Ramsey preferred yourself. Do you not remember when he was admiring your painting?”
“That is nothing, for my brother did say it was my best. But do you really think I could marry a man in the navy?”
“Could you not?”
“No, I do not think so. He would be away for so long! And even if I was to accompany him, I cannot imagine living at sea.”
“I think it would be very exciting.”
“Exhilaration for one is terror to another, or at least that is what I have come to believe. The fear that I feel when he describes his adventures, it is beyond anything! But if you do not mind it then he must suit you.”
“Do you really not care for him?”
“No, no we are very good friends and have been all our lives; if there is something of attention it can only be because of that. And you know that I must consider my family. He is a second son, without a very great independence.”
Kitty was unable to stand against such rational opposition and soon agreed. Her natural modesty and doubt were soon overcome by Georgiana’s continual hints and she began to think herself rather fortunate in having gone from near hopelessness to a veritable wealth of possibilities.
Direct to Longbourn, Mr. Bennet
My dear Sir,
I thank you for your letter, allow me to graciously extend my felicitations on the birth of your son. It is my humble plea that the arrival of this new Bennet will not result in a diminishment of the relationship that has been fostered between our families. It is my intention to pay a visit to your inviting home the next time I find myself in Hertfordshire.
My wife bids me to ask if the rectory at Longbourn has been bestowed or promised for the next presentation. My wife’s method of economy is so prosperous that we find ourselves able to hazard such a purchase. My excellent father-in-law, as you may know, is not blessed with such a presentation and I shall own having no family besides yourself who may command such power. I will rely on your friendship in this matter, as you have been long welcoming in your manner towards myself and Mrs. Collins. If it is impossible that the living in your possession be so disposed of, I request your kindness in recommending us to another and proving such friendship true.
Congratulations, again, on the birth of your son,
I am, dear sir, etc. etc.
Chapter 33 – March 1815, Woodhaven
Mary Bennet, with the festive season behind her, felt all the loss of the company of Edward to the extent that even open access to a wonderful pianoforte and a library, with its increasing stature, could do little to ease her suffering. She had, with strong sisterly duty, made herself available to help with the boys, to play with them and entertain them with music, but this did not occupy her mind enough to stop her longing. Her mind was full of extracts from her reading and with her charge, from Elizabeth, to observe Jane’s life and work. She had finished what she deemed necessary but could not reconcile herself to the conclusion.
Mary did not wish to be a great lady. She knew, after observing Elizabeth and Jane with care, that she would not enjoy a life of society and responsibility. No, to be much like her Aunt Philips, to have only the demands on her time that she desired and a comfortable income, enough to keep herself in the style she wished, that would be enough for her. But there were several items she could not quite dismiss that came readily in numbered order to her head.
Firstly, would marrying into the status once held by her very mother, so elevated by the allegiance with her honoured father, be a step backwards in society, and therefore one not to be prudent, or indeed moral, given the station that she had been granted by birth?
Secondly, would she truly honour her parents by choosing such a man? Should they not expect their investment in her education and upbringing to result in a husband of similar or higher stature? Would she be, to her mortification, following in Lydia’s path and not obeying her parents to the fullest extent of duty?
Thirdly, was her attachment to Edward truly strong or was it a result of vanity? Had she been overcome by mere attention, which by igniting her pride made her blind to his faults, if he indeed had them, and blind to her true desires? How was she to discern what was a result of such vanity and what was truth?
Fourthly, and fourth in importance to Mary, for she was such a mixture of strange and moral parts that the matter of principle importance to many others fell so far down on her list: would she be happy?
Mary should have owned that the fourth was decided, she was very certain that marrying Edward would make her very happy. He had, in his manner, laid out his requirements for a wife explicitly and Mary had found them very accommodating. He wished to mix with society to a degree that would promote and compliment his business, but no more. He wished for a good table and a small, well-fitted home. The mornings he would leave his future wife, which Mary heavily favoured, to pursue her own interests, but would enjoy an evening of discussion, or study, or music. He saw himself doing well in his profession, for both his successors had done well, and was prepared to accept Mary’s small dowry. In truth, a more perfect man could have been found if Mary had searched half the kingdom.
Mary, however, was too wrapped in her moralizing to be much help to herself. She wrote her list of quandaries in her diary, beside her extracts, and notes about Jane’s daily activities. She consulted books from the library with little success. She made vague inquiries to Jane, who was so perplexed by the complicated questions that she was not able to offer a single word of useful advice. Elizabeth had indeed confided in Jane about Mary’s predicament, but even that information was insufficient to understand poor Mary.
As her second month with Jane came to a close, Mary was no closer to a decision on her path. Unknown to herself or anyone in England, a Frenchman had escaped from exile on a small island and made his way to his home country. An army was quickly being recruited and the general fear and discord that surrounded this sudden news was enough to put the entirety of England society into turmoil and for this young woman, it inspired her to request that she might return home early and accept the life that she had been all but offered. Charles and Jane were preparing by then to join Elizabeth for her confinement and were happy to accommodate the request.
Mary returned home to a mother who, in accordance with Elizabeth’s assurances, was very glad to hear, over the course of a few days, that she had another daughter engaged. Mr. Bennet gave credit to her sensible choice and, when he was thinking more selfishly, was pleased that his wife would always have a daughter nearby with whom she might spend a good deal of her time. Mary’s fears were entirely allayed, there was no vanity, no disobedience in her choice, and she felt in time that she had found a great deal of happiness.
Edward Philips, of course, had strong feelings about this matter and his were thus: he was hurt that she had left him for her sister, he was fearful that she might not return, he was gratified that she cut the trip short for himself, and he was eager to prevent her from so going again. He was a man of facts and information, and Mary’s return and subsequent visits were all the encouragement that he required for a proposal. He proposed, with all the rational strong feelings that one must suppose burst forth and she said what was proper and true about her own heart.
One might wish that the end of peace and the fear of invasion, and the clarity of mind it provided, was not the catalyst for an engagement. It hardly sounds like a proper inducement, so unlike long unrequited love and fiery passions that one might find in other tales. But let me assure you that remembering one’s mortality is a very common encouragement to marriage, at least from this author’s observation.
Dear Elizabeth,
Your father has unfairly deprived me of the honour of announcing young Lewis’s birth, but I take up my pen for an event of near equal joy; your sister Mary is to be wed. She is engaged to your cousin Edward Philips. I think him a very good man, though I had hoped for her to find something better. It is respectable to have another daughter married. At three-and-twenty you must know that I worried for her chances. My sister Philips has done much to promote the match, far more perhaps than Mary’s sisters have done for her security.
Young master Lewis is more than well, as I am sure you are eager to hear. I have never had a babe so easy and happy. He must know that he has fulfilled every earnest wish of his parents. I hope that you will be able to come soon and visit him. Your father reminds me of your own coming confinement. I feel so well that perhaps he will be persuaded to take us all to Pemberley, once Lewis has reached the time of safety. You must see your brother and share in my admiration.
Please give my love to Lavinia, young Fitz, my son-in-law, Kitty, and Georgina, with hope to see you soon,
Mrs. Bennet
Chapter 34 – March 1815, Pemberley
The day of Elizabeth’s trial began before the sun had risen. Jane, already present, rushed to the chamber, sending a servant into the town at once to fetch the midwife. Everything had been prepared for some time; Jane had been at Pemberley for a few weeks in anticipation. The other inhabitants of the house rose to the hurried business. Georgiana and Kitty were already sent to Fitzwilliam’s uncle, the children were hurried outside or to a far corner of the house by their nursemaids. The men, sitting together, waited in anxiety for the outcome.
Elizabeth and Jane’s bond had been strengthened by their mutual entrance into motherhood. They had been in attendance for each other’s confinement. Jane steeled herself for the day that was to come, to hear her sister in distress and to wonder at the conclusion. Too many days such as these ended in sadness. In the heart of each sister was the sum of six weeks, in that time they would know if the baby and the mother were safe.
Fitzwilliam was not as far off as he could have been. He could hear Elizabeth from the parlour he had chosen. Charles was with him, wondering at his composure. The danger faced by any woman was great; to Darcy this was a particular fear. Lady Anne Darcy had perished when Georgiana was but two years old of fever after an early delivery. The child, hopelessly small, had not lived an hour. Fitzwilliam had planned all that he could; the midwife was experienced, a doctor was within a short distance, and Jane was by his wife’s side. He could do nothing more. All his wealth and stature could not save his wife and child from possible disaster. He heard Elizabeth with some small amount of comfort, while he could hear her, she must live.
Jane felt her own fatigue as the day wore on, Elizabeth seemed stretched beyond her strength but still the task continued. As Jane began to despair, and wondered if she should call for the doctor, the midwife called that the child would now come. Jane heard the new cries of life soon after and was dispatched with haste to Fitzwilliam.
“You have another son.”
Fitzwilliam departed for his wife’s chamber immediately, waiting only for the linens to be changed. Jane stayed a moment with Charles, her face pale, and worry instead of joy prominent on her features.
“Does the child do poorly?”
“It is my sister; I fear for her.”
“We must wait before beginning to worry; she has not yet had her rest.”
To this Jane consented and was somewhat consoled. It was nearly supper and the hours had indeed been long. Jane took only enough time to eat and change her gown before returning to Elizabeth. She found Fitzwilliam unexpectedly still by his wife’s side.
“Elizabeth must rest,” she reminded him gently.
Fitzwilliam turned to her, and she saw in him such a fear that all her sanguine thoughts fled her mind. Elizabeth was asleep, her hand clasped with his, her face was pale and her sleep restless. Jane was overcome, and seeing that Fitzwilliam was not meaning to depart, fled the room for she could not be quiet in her sorrow. Charles, hearing her, attempted to console her but made no effect. She only managed to tell her husband that she was afraid.
The night was passed uneasily by all present. Elizabeth slept fitfully, though with enough strength to attend to the child. Fitzwilliam hardly slept, unable to find rest while Elizabeth’s health remained uncertain. Jane and Charles could not have felt much less, and when Jane arose, she went directly to the chamber to see any improvement. Elizabeth appeared stronger that morning. She ate and drank some, though Jane fretted it was not enough. She managed to banished her brother-in-law; it would not do for him to become ill with worry.
Elizabeth asked to see the child and Jane brought him. He was well-formed and hale; Jane found some relief in him being the picture of health. She helped her sister attend to him, bending her mind towards thoughts of the child’s progress instead of the mother. Jane had been somewhat fortunate, for while she had carried two children at once, their arrival had been easy and done with relative speed. Every worried thought she strove to check. It had only been twelve hours since the arrival; of course her sister remained tired.
That day and the next brought more sanguine feelings, as Elizabeth seemed to improve every hour. She ate, talked with Jane, delighted in the baby, and smiled enough at Fitzwilliam to allow him an excuse to leave the room and spend some time out of doors. The baby’s name was discussed, but not entirely bestowed and he was introduced, very briefly, to his older brother. Upon finding that his baby brother could neither sit, stand, walk, or play, little Fitz dismissed him as very dull and sought the attentions of his mother. He was soon ushered away by his aunt, not wanting to overtax Elizabeth with his exuberant spirits.
Jane was confident enough in her sister’s health to leave her in the care of one of the trusted servants for an hour or two while she dined with the rest of the party. Surely the danger was not entirely passed, but they talked of Elizabeth’s strength and the baby’s apparent health enough to put immediate concerns out of mind. One might not have known, if they were to observe the party, how much each heart still feared for their wife and sister.
Jane, upon returning to the chamber, began to read to her sister to pass the time but soon Elizabeth asked her to stop. She had a dreadful headache and could no longer attend to the words her sister spoke. Jane sent at once for the midwife, who found worrying signs of cold chills and pain in the abdomen. Worse news could not have come and Jane once again ran for Fitzwilliam, who became white and sent for the physician. He was waiting in the room when the doctor came.
The doctor himself was immediately worried. He had come with draughts, and they were administered immediately according to his instructions. There was nothing else to do that night, but he assured them he would return in the morning. The two waiting with Elizabeth watched as she worsened with every hour. She became very hot and thirsty, distressed by pain, and even the doctor’s medicines could not bring her to sleep. The physician returned in the morning, examined the patient, and then, leaving the room with Fitzwilliam, gave his diagnosis.
“It is puerperal fever; she has every sign,” he said, seeing Fitzwilliam’s face change he continued, “You must not despair, if a woman is at home and well cared for, most of them recover. Your wife has a healthy constitution, I understand. There is hope for a recovery. I will return before the end of the day. I have given some medicines to the sister; she seems a diligent nurse.”
Darcy managed to speak enough to thank the physician and dismiss him, but nothing more passed his lips. He was in agony. That he could lose his wife was so deep a fear he could not speak it. That the same fever might take her, in the very room where it had claimed his mother, was too dreadful a prospect to be imagined. That he might ever find her equal again was impossible. Had not chance formed his friendship with Bingley; Bingley’s whim led him to Netherfield; and Darcy’s fancy pushed him to accompanying Charles, he and Elizabeth might have never met. During his life, Darcy had known many young women of gentle birth, but none had ever captured his attention so completely, had created hope in him that he had not realized he was lacking. He was determined she must improve, for he had no inclination of a future without her presence.
The patient was soon wretched. Her pain increased, she could not eat or drink without great difficulty, and she lay listless and indifferent. Her pulse was very quick and her skin hot to the touch. The various medicines at their and the physician’s disposal made little difference to her condition. She slept ill, did little while awake, and soon was entirely unable to care for the baby. He was removed from her presence and put into the care of a nurse. It was a small comfort that his health remained steady; the child was not in danger.
Jane might have slept as little as her sister. She remained at Elizabeth’s bed every moment she could, taking only small amounts of time to herself to eat, dress, and wash. Jane’s only happy thought was her surprise that Fitzwilliam remained. To nurse was the work of women, but he refused to leave and made every effort to learn what Jane would do and cared for Elizabeth as well as he could. It would do Elizabeth no benefit however, to know how diligently he attended her, if the fever did not abate. Her sister did not improve and only worsened as the days progressed.
Charles spent a good deal of time alone, helpless to provide aid and only seeming to exist to hear of the sorrows of his wife and friend. He was the only one aware that the world outside Elizabeth’s chamber was moving without them, that England was at war again on the mainland. The news meant nothing to Jane or Fitzwilliam. What is war abroad when death looms within one’s own home? In the few moments Jane took for herself, she tried not to imagine Elizabeth’s possible fate. What would she be without her sister? She hardly wished to know.
March 24, Pemberley,
Father,
I write in great distress; I know not what else to do. I know you cannot come and you must keep my news from our mother. It is still her time of recovery. There is nothing I can do for our fear is too great: Elizabeth has fallen ill. Her fever is severe. It began three days after the child’s birth. The physician has some hope, that she was strong before the conf-(illegible) and I must endure in hope as well. I hardly know how to write and know there is nothing you can do.
Jane
Chapter 35 – March 1815, Derbyshire
Kitty and Georgiana had no knowledge of what passed at Pemberley. They were to remain with Georgiana’s uncle, the Earl, for two months. Kitty, though worried about her sister during her time, could not help but think of her own prospects. To know that Mr. Henry Fitzwilliam was no more than a short walk away had been interesting enough for her, but she had soon learned that Captain Ramsey’s family was only two miles hence. The family’s small estate was almost surrounded by the Earl’s lands and the distance was frequently crossed by both families who dined together with some regularity.
To believe that she indeed had the earnest interest of two men was an object of some wonder to Kitty’s sensibilities. To have had no success in the season in London was no loss in her mind now. Its disappointed hopes were long behind her. While the gentlemen could not be more distinct, she was sanguine that with either she could be reasonably happy. She had spent enough time in both of their company to discern that they were kind men, with none of the sharp wit of her father. While the Captain was verbose and Mr. Fitzwilliam was reserved, Kitty had found herself able to converse with each with enough ease to make her comfortable and with enough interest to make her hopeful that with one or the other, she might spend the rest of her life in comfortable domestic felicity.
Focused as Georgiana was on her friend’s prospects, she had not spent much time considering her own. Elizabeth’s hint had given Georgiana good cause to look about her and consider a man from her intimate acquaintance, but she had not yet been at leisure to do so. She had only dwelt on the poverty of her prospects. The first sons of the surrounding families were all married or far too young. Georgiana still considered her obligation to marry well, in rank and riches, as a near duty.
Georgiana and Kitty were working in a sitting room one morning when Captain Ramsey was announced, whom they had not expected to see until the next day. He was dressed for travel and they both knew before he spoke what he must have come to announce.
“You must be aware of the news from the mainland, I have been given my orders. I leave today.”
Kitty was greatly affected and Georgiana, in concern for her friend, only slightly less so. “I had thought your ship was not to be repaired for some time?” said Kitty.
“I have been assigned to another ship; there is great fear of invasion. I cannot say that I did not expect a summons. I expect I shall join the blockade.”
Georgiana could not speak and fearing that her composure would break, she fled the room without a word. He watched her go and stood, seeming unsure if he should remain or follow her.
“I will be anxious to hear that you are well. Do you think you will be able to write home often?” Kitty asked anxiously.
“It is not always possible, though I will be sure to give whatever news I can. If I am to be in the channel or transporting soldiers- but I do not yet know.”
Kitty stood silent for a moment, overwhelmed by possibility that she might, by forces beyond her understanding, lose a man she had come so much to admire. Captain Ramsey seemed equally oppressed and said nothing. Kitty suddenly blushed deeply, Georgiana had understood, she must have believed that the Captain meant to propose. And yet, nothing came. The two stood silently and without resolve. Kitty almost began to think that if he was not obliged eventually to depart, they might have remained there forever in silence.
Kitty was trying to think of anything she knew to do in such a situation. Then, suddenly resolved, took her scissors, and freed one of her long curls so she might cut it. She wrapped it in a cloth handkerchief and pressed it into his hands.
“Miss Bennet, I am honoured.”
Kitty blushed deeply, “Please say no more. I will wait for news of you, and your return thereafter.” She fled from the room, ashamed of her rash action but knowing that it was the only possible thing that she could have done. Her heart remained divided; she had moved ahead thoughtlessly. There had been pictures of ladies from by-gone eras in her head, granting favours to their knights errant.
“What have I done?” she asked in a low voice to herself, as she searched for Georgiana.
Alone in another parlour, Georgiana was trying to contain the wrenching sobs which had suddenly burst from her. She had only just gotten away before she was almost entirely overcome. He was going, he might never return. It was something her rational mind had long comprehended but had not touched her heart. Georgiana realized all at once that it was not friendship that sent her flying from the room, it was love that had passed so seamlessly into true affection that she had not tracked its path in her own heart.
When Kitty came upon her and saw her distress, she said nothing but sat beside Georgiana and held her hand gently. Georgiana struggled for composure, and finally said, “Did he say anything more?”
“Only that he hopes to write.”
“To you?” Georgiana said, remembering that she had left them alone and taking this as every confirmation of an engagement.
“Oh no, to his family, or your brother. He could not write to me.”
Georgiana was able to breathe again and she began to wonder if she had been wrong in thinking that he loved Kitty, “Did he say nothing else?”
“No, I do not think so, but I did-” Kitty covered her face in her hands, “I did something, I do not think I should have- I thought I did right when I did it, but now I do not know.”
Georgiana could only ask what she had done. Kitty related what had happened and Georgiana felt some measure of relief. “He must have felt honoured by your token,” she said, “I will not tell a soul.”
Kitty still looked uncertain, “But I do not know if I really care for him. Beyond- I mean to say- I do want him to come home.”
“You are not certain of your own regard?”
“No, I do not know. Yet if he was to die, I had thought-” she blushed again and could not speak.
Georgiana did not know what to say to calm her friend, she was far from well herself, but the description of events had given her hope. He had not spoken. If he would feel bound in honour to Kitty hereafter, or she to him, Georgiana could not say. If he did love Kitty, she must think that he would have spoken. She knew not what to think or say, except that her mind was quickly unravelling every objection she had so recently and easily raised against such a connection.
If only he would come home alive.
March 25, Pemberley,
Father,
The prospect is grave. I cannot write for crying. Please send me some words by our servant for Elizabeth and I shall read it for her. I dare not ask for you to come, I doubt now that she would survive the length of your journey. But what else can I do?
Jane
Dearest Father,
Elizabeth still lives, we are beginning to hope that the worst has passed. She is not yet well; her eyes are languid and dull. She has not been often truly awake and when she is, she says nothing we can discern the meaning of. Her pulse is still weak and rapid; her fever is lower, though it has not yet broken. Darcy attends to her now so I might write and rest. He bids me relate that he will do everything within his power for Elizabeth.
Thank you for your letter, I felt that Elizabeth was glad to hear it.
Mrs. Jane Bingley
Chapter 36 – March 1815, Pemberley
Jane sat awake through the worst night. Her sister was unable to sleep; constantly restless and detached from what passed around her. There was nothing Jane could do; every medicine had failed and every attempt of the physician to relieve the fever had done almost nothing. Jane could not bring herself to sleep or accept that anyone else might perform the dreadful vigil; tired and worn as she was from her own exertions.
She was rewarded for her attentiveness when at about four in the morning Elizabeth sat up, looked at her in the darkness with more than usual clarity, and said, “Jane?”
Jane was almost too overcome to speak, Elizabeth had spoken nothing rational in more than three days, “Yes?” she said.
“Water?” A cub was quickly found and given and Elizabeth settled into a more restful sleep than Jane had witnessed for a few days. Once her sister was asleep, Jane busied herself checking the patient. She was less hot to the touch and her pulse was stronger. Unwilling to believe that this improvement might be sustained but unable to keep herself from feeling hope, she settled into her chair with a lighter heart.
It seemed that every hour from that time brought more improvement. Elizabeth was asleep for most of the day, but when she woke, she asked for food and water and while still languid, she spoke sensibly to those in the room. Jane was not satisfied until near dinner and it was then that she left for the first time to dress and eat. After the meal, she would have returned to the sick chamber but she was prevented by her husband.
“You must have some rest yourself,” said he.
“I cannot rest when Elizabeth’s health is still in question.”
“The servant who is watching her now is a very capable nurse, Darcy told me himself. You may ask for her to alert you if Elizabeth’s condition changes.”
“She would not leave me!” Jane said, and tears began to stream down her face unchecked.
“Your sister would not ask you to sacrifice your own health on her behalf. You will make yourself unwell if you do not rest,” Charles said softly, taking his wife’s arm and leading her slowly to her own room.
Jane went only half-willingly and allowed herself to be prepared for bed. She thought to only lay down for a moment, but did not awaken until nearly noon the next day. Jane ran to Elizabeth’s room to find that nothing had occurred during her absence. The recovery continued apace. Jane wrote to her father with the happy news; remembering that only days before she had written a letter she had thought would foretell the end.
After spending a few hours in her sister’s room, Jane left to find her husband. She was nearly angry, or as close to it as she had been. “Why was I left asleep so long? I gave order to my maid to wake me,” she said angrily.
Charles replied calmly, “You are not the only one who can nurse your sister. She continues to recover without your aid.”
“But if she had needed me, or thought I abandoned her; I should not have left her for so long.”
“No one would ever doubt your devotion to your sister, but you need to spare a thought for your own health. It was the same when your mother was ill, or thought she was, you did not let anyone else take their share of the burden.”
Jane could not help but feel the truth of his words, though her conscious still railed against her negligence.
“Forgive me for allowing you to recover your strength.”
Jane smiled weakly, “I forgive you.”
“Will you allow someone else to stay with Elizabeth tonight?”
“Not tonight, and I have rested. Perhaps tomorrow.”
Charles took her hand, “Then at least promise me when this is over that we will have some time apart so you can rest.”
Jane knew that she could do nothing but agree. When Elizabeth was stronger and she even more weary, she would be better able to appreciate the truth of what he said.
Chapter 37, April 1815, Brussels
George Wickham had always considered himself an intelligent man and he had done well for himself, he believed, until this very day. His service in the military, stationed on the home front, had consisted of little but self-indulgence. His marriage, though he would rather wish to be free of it, was coinvented. If it did not answer his aspirations of wealth, it at least offered the protection of Lydia’s relations. Wickham knew enough to keep his debts within reason and his improprieties from general knowledge. If he had several children in the rural areas of Newcastle, he cared not, for he never told his true name and was gone before the condition could be noticed. He was wise enough now to never dally with those equal to or above his rank.
All his work towards this happy balance seemed upended, he was standing in Belgium, with his wife under his protection. His regiment had been the first to cross the channel and face the rising emperor. Wickham had no thoughts of promotion or progression, he had tried to resign his commission, but he was refused. He had tried to convince Lydia, with as many different arguments that he could command, to return to Longbourn and safety, but she declined anything but to come.
“I will have learned French for nothing,” said she, with a laugh. What she imagined war with France to be he could not envision, but she had demanded to accompany him. It was not unusual for the wife of an officer to come, but Wickham was a coward at heart, and he felt the danger of the coming action more than most. The small part of him that liked Lydia did not wish to expose her to the devastation and horror of war. Wickham’s most pressing fear was for himself: he did not want to see combat and he did not want to die or live in the pain and difficulty of injury. Very suddenly, the years of indolence were weighing heavily on his mind, for he hardly knew what it was to be a soldier beyond wearing his smart red coat. He had shot only birds and foxes, marched only for parades, and learned as little as he could about formations and duties befitting his station.
He regretted at once the indulgence which had led him to Belgium and cursed the fellow officer who was safe at home with Wickham’s former commission. Wickham was not of a mind to blame himself entirely for his own foolish actions, how was he to know that war would come to the continent so soon? He spent a good deal of his time trying to think of a way to escape his inevitable duty. The French certainly would come and he would have to fight. He had been able to avoid real conflict all his life and Wickham was confidant that his cunning would not fail him now.
Lydia for her part, was entranced by the novelty of the experience and thought little of the actual fighting that may ensue. She was with Eleanor, fussing over the arrangement of their apartment in Brussels and eager for enjoyment.
“You will not believe Eleanor; Mamma has sent me with a good gift of money! La! I am wild to go shopping and I am told the styles here are much ahead of London. You must come with me tomorrow. I am sure the shops will still be open. However, nothing is happening yet. I have been invited to a ball, yourself as well I am sure, and with a person of title I am told. It seems in Brussels all you need is a red coat to go to any party, which is just as I like it. Perhaps I will tell everyone a false name and pretend I am French. Would not that be a wonderful scheme? I was talking to a very handsome solider yesterday and he was from another place- no not Dutch, he was Prussian? Yes, that I am sure. I told him I was a Countess in England, and I was sure he would not know either way. And it would have all gone off so well if I had not laughed when I said it. I could not help but imagine it you know and that set me off. Well, he must have thought that something was amiss or that English nobility are very strange. Then Colonel Warren came by, and he set it all straight, he is such a bore sometimes. However, he accompanied me to the park afterwards and that was very pleasant. We must go, but after we have new dresses. I am certain they can tell that we are English by these old rags.
“Do not be concerned about the expense, I am sure your husband can afford anything. And besides, it was not just my mother but Jane as well. I have not written to Elizabeth; I think she must be cross with me which is so tiresome. Her husband is so proud and cross; it must be his fault. Or else Lizzy has become like him! With the money from Jane, I thought to get a new bonnet. Something very smart and out of the common way that will cause a riot back in England. We shall have to look for some smart satin from the shops. You must have a new bonnet too! I will help you trim it. I insist upon it. You must get a smart bonnet and we can walk the streets and introduce ourselves in French. It is a delightful scheme and with you I am sure we can achieve it. However, we must avoid our husbands. They are sure to ruin our good joke.
“I think it is so tiresome to be married. I imagined it would be such fun! But then you did not get the sort of husband that I did. There is no one who wishes to promote my happiness! But here no one will know who I am, we can do whatever we wish! I must think of more plans, that we might have fun forever!”
Dearest Elizabeth,
Your father has only just told me of your illness and recovery. I do not wonder that he delayed, for I know I would have been miserable with worry. I eagerly await further tidings from yourself and Jane. You must know that I hope most earnestly to hear that you are out of danger. I shall not be easy myself, I shall be most nervous, while you are unwell. I fear my heart cannot bear the exertion!
You must follow the instructions of the midwife as far as you can. Your cousin Edward, who is to marry Mary, his mother died of fever after his sister’s birth. Mrs. Walsh always recommended the strictest regiment of rest for recovery. I am afraid that Mrs. Edward Philips did not follow the advice, or take a good portion of gruel after the child came. But, however, then I know that Mrs. Goulding did follow every instruction but was taken on her seventh child with fever. She did recover, but we had a most clever apothecary at the time. But then Mr. Darcy will be able to afford the very best, I am sure.
I will anticipate the next letter every moment,
Your affectionate mother & etc.
Mrs. Bennet
Dearest Father,
I cannot say that we are entirely out of danger, but Elizabeth seems much improved and even Darcy has joined my sanguine view. We dare not leave the chamber of confinement, but Elizabeth has been strong enough to sit up and even walk about the room. She is very weak and only can rise on her husband’s strength. The physician has been again and has granted permission for going out of doors, which you can imagine Elizabeth longs for, but only on the warmest days. He believes the air will do her good. We are joyous in her improvement, but she is ill-suited to confinement and illness; Elizabeth becomes a worse patient each day.
I have neglected to inform you of the child, my mind has been occupied elsewhere. I know not if you have heard from the father himself, but little George Darcy does exceedingly well. He is very strong; the absolute picture of health. Of him, we worry only that he might never be satisfied in a meal and that he will use all the clothes before his older brother has finished with them.
I pray for the health of you, mother, and my dear brother Lewis.
Regards etc., Mrs. Jane Bingley
Chapter 38 – April 1815, Pemberley
The beauty of the spring day was a glorious signal to Elizabeth that her confinement would be at an end at last. She was wild to be out of her room; she knew the boredom was making her impetuous, but she could not control her feelings to her usual extent. She longed to remedy the weakness that the illness had created by returning to her usual walks. Elizabeth knew how Fitzwilliam must feel and he had demanded to accompany her on the first small endeavour into the shrubbery. Elizabeth accepted his help; she was pleased enough to descend for breakfast on her own strength.
Jane and Bingley were soon to depart for their home, the danger was deemed past. Elizabeth wished Jane away and restored. She was nearly as pale as Elizabeth and seemed thin and weaker from her exertion at her sister’s side. Elizabeth had heard the Bingleys speak of a trip to Bath, ans she hoped her sister would be the better for it. It was difficult to see her beloved Jane so affected.
Fitzwilliam insisted on a shawl, and Elizabeth, longing at last to be outside, took his instructions without protest. They were not to walk far, the route had been planned so they would come upon a bench with a view of the park, and after resting there, return to the safety of Pemberley. Elizabeth felt the sun as a balm and the air as an old friend. Fitzwilliam held her closely as they walked without much speed.
Elizabeth knew enough of her husband’s character to know that he was troubled, but enough of his concern to know that he sought to spare her from his brooding. She suspected that whatever he dwelt on was also part of Jane’s suffering, for she did not seem enough improved in spirit as Elizabeth’s recovery might be thought to induce. They had now reached the bench and Elizabeth was grateful to sit and rest.
“I feel certain enough,” Elizabeth began, “that the physician has related some details of my illness you thought to spare me from given the gravity of my condition. I wish you would unfold them to me, I cannot be in danger now.” Elizabeth could see that Fitzwilliam was troubled, he did not meet her gaze. That was enough to confirm her suspicions that there was something to tell. “I have thought that there might be some lasting effects.”
Fitzwilliam did not look at his wife as he spoke, “The physician and the midwife both agreed that when a woman experiences childbed fever to your degree- even if she is to survive the woman is unlikely to carry another child.” He did not add that the news had brought him nothing but relief. He loved his children completely, but his fear of Elizabeth’s danger superseded any wish to add to their number. Elizabeth’s illness had almost been more than he could bear, he still awoke in fear that she was still confined to that room and that bed, near death.
This was the exact information that Elizabeth had expected to hear yet the anticipation did not dampen the blow: the words were pain and misery. Elizabeth delighted in her children and in being a mother. She had envisioned Pemberley full of children, the numerous large rooms in the family wing bursting with laughter and play. Her fond wishes were dashed, the two children she had, young Fitzwilliam and George, they were the only two she would ever be granted. They were so dear to her and yet it was difficult to think of them now in the shadow of finality.
“Lavinia,” she remembered suddenly, “Lavinia must be ours. I have always wished for a daughter.”
Fitzwilliam took her hands in his own, “Your sister and Wickham remain in Brussels; it cannot be settled now. You must know, that if Wickham suspects your wishes, he will have demands to make of us. It will be a delicate matter.”
“I do not care what he asks, give him half of Pemberley, if she might truly be our daughter.”
He said nothing, because he knew it was not her rational mind that spoke. Elizabeth’s mind briefly ran down a dark path. She considered that they might finally ruin Wickham, recall his debts and send him to prison, but her good nature won out and she simply began to weep. The injustice of the situation wrought her mind, that her sister remained able to bear children only to abandon them while she was destroyed. There was no notion of justice. Elizabeth could feel Fitzwilliam’s hand on her own, his warmth beside her, his calm presence as she mourned for a loss he had known for some time. She cried without any desire of consolation and her husband, sensing her need, waited before speaking again until she was more composed.
“I had thought,” Fitzwilliam spoke in a low voice, “In a few years we could invite your elder Gardiner cousins to stay. It is just the time in their lives to begin to learn to move in society.”
Elizabeth looked at him in wonder, he could not have said anything more calming to her heart. Yes, the Gardiners could only delight in such a plan, for their daughters to gain such connections and learn to move in their circles. She knew her uncle had handsome sums set aside for each, they would not be snubbed for their origins with that to recommend them. The eldest was eleven, almost the proper age to guide towards a respectable future. The notion grew in Elizabeth’s heart, offering a small glimmer of hope against the despair.
“Perhaps some day we might do the same for Mary or Charlotte,” she spoke quietly.
“Whatever you wish, you can surround yourself with as many little Philipses and Collinses as you wish.”
“If we did not speak of Lavinia, I daresay Lydia might forget that she lives,” Elizabeth said darkly.
“I will do what I can. Wickham might be brought to reason. He certainly had no protests to make when she was sent away.”
Comforted by these ideas, Elizabeth rose, and they began the slow walk towards the house. Elizabeth went immediately to the nursery to hold her infant son and mourn the future she had lost. She would, in time, become reconciled to her fate. Yet, if she held little George a little longer or sewed a few too many beautiful pink flowers on Lavinia’s dresses or watched little Fitz play with his father with a slight tear in her eye, she knew the truth behind it. For now, there were three perfect healthy children under her care, and she was determined to love them for as long as she could.
Darcy was thinking of Wickham and how he might save Lavinia from ever being under her father’s care again. He knew Wickham could be reasoned with when he saw no other alternative, his marriage to Lydia was proof enough of that. Yet, what he would ask in a case such as this, and what Darcy was willing to give was another matter. He had no intention of ever granting Wickham something as important as a living, it went against all of his notions of morality. It seemed that there would never be a way to be rid of Wickham, not when Darcy’s wife’s family and happiness was so bound together with Wickham’s schemes and caprices. Darcy would wait until the war was over, then he would have to face Lavinia’s future.
Kitty,
I so wish that you could have joined us and come to Brussels, it is more fun than even I imagined! There are parties almost every night and, thus far, nothing of danger. The city is very full and I have met people that you would not have dreamed of. I know you stay with an earl, but I have met a duchess, a marquis, and more nobility from every country! (Well, save for France, as you can imagine). I have only seen the Duke of Wellington, he is always surrounded by other important people, but that is more than most girls in England. Are you not jealous? But I would have shared it all with you if I could.
I see Warren less these days than I would like, he is always so occupied with business. How dull I think it!
Now you will see what a good sister I am, I shall cover the other side with some drawings of gowns I have seen only last night at the ball. Forgive my poor hand but I have tried.
Write me soon and tell me of everything, including what you know of L.
Salutations distinguées,
Lydia
Chapter 39 – May 1815, Derbyshire
Georgiana and Kitty had learned by Fitzwilliam’s arrival at the house, that Elizabeth was now thought to be out of danger, and he planned to return in three days’ time to see them settled back at Pemberley. His visit was not long, he had some business with the Earl that could not be done by proxy. As much as Elizabeth must now be considered out of danger, he was not eager to leave her side. Elizabeth herself was not yet equal to travel by carriage even for the present short distance. While the girls had certainly passed their time pleasantly, both were ready to go home. There was only a single engagement which prevented their removing with their brother immediately, they had promised to Mr. Henry Fitzwilliam to dine with him at the parsonage.
Through their visit, Mr. Fitzwilliam had dined often at his parent’s home. The parsonage that formed his primary residence was in view of the great house and could be reached in only a few minutes’ walk. It had always been intended for one of the sons of the Earl, it was well cared for and larger than many a parsonage house. The living was a good one, with bountiful land and a small orchard. Mr. Fitzwilliam held a living of almost equal value some miles away where he had installed a curate, though he was fastidious enough to spend some of his time in each parish to better execute his duties.
Kitty’s feelings on the visit were varied, Georgiana had told no one what had passed when Captain Ramsey departed, yet she felt bound to him by honour. This made her wonder at the propriety and rightness of her visiting Mr. Fitzwilliam’s home, knowing as she did that he admired her. The visit being all for her was a thought she dared not contemplate. Kitty had left some of her heart in another man’s keeping and she would not be inconstant. Yet, she could not be insensible to Mr. Henry Fitzwilliam’s kind and gentle manners, his devotion to his profession and solicitude to the poor of the parish.
The house, as they approached, was well positioned and modern, having been built not a very long time before. There was a fine shrubbery and a small garden with a pleasant, though short walk to the entrance. Mr. Henry Fitzwilliam greeted Kitty and Georgiana warmly as they came in, they came with the Viscount and his wife and one of their younger sisters to make a party of six, which was by no means too many for the size of the drawing room or table. Kitty was shown around the house by Mr. Fitzwilliam himself. Kitty could not help but notice that the residence was very much one of a gentleman; fitted up in style and with attention paid to the aspect from each window.
Mr. Fitzwilliam confessed that since he so seldom had guests, the chief of his acquaintance being in a very easy distance and the rest of it known to his father, that only a few rooms were entirely complete. The drawing room at the entrance of the house was well appointed, but a room that might have served as a parlour or a breakfast room was entirely empty. These must be the signs of a man living alone and in need of a wife. She blushed as he showed the last room, with a hint of regret for it not being furnished that she felt was directed at herself.
The meal was served promptly, and the family party was talkative and merry. Kitty noticed three dishes of her favourite foods but dismissed this as either chance or fashion. By no means did she think that she might have been observed that closely during a meal for Mr. Fitzwilliam to have discerned her tastes. The more rational explanation, he had asked Georgiana, was not a thought that crossed her mind.
Mr. Fitzwilliam talked to Kitty, for she was seated near him. She did not hear of adventures or foreign shores, but of the concerns of Mrs. Somebody with more children than she could afford and Mr. Someone in the village with a rogue son and a lame horse. Kitty found much to interest in the affairs of the town and Mr. Fitzwilliam’s efforts towards everyone’s comfort and wellness. He was not content to merely marry, christen, and bury his parishioners, as some clergy might do, but endeavoured to be as useful to them as possible. Kitty perceived true caring in his conversation and began to realize that she felt something perhaps akin to esteem for him. She blushed at the thought, hiding it behind her hand.
Georgiana, who was enjoying the evening, had been watching Kitty with interest. That her cousin was very much in love with Kitty was clear to her, yet Georgiana knew what had transpired between Kitty and Captain Ramsey. Perhaps if the Captain had remained and the occasion of danger had not brought Kitty to such a rash action, her cousin might have made more progress. As it was, Georgiana merely could watch as Mr. Fitzwilliam made every effort to recommend himself to Kitty, with little in return for his efforts than modest smiles and polite words. It pained her to watch his stunted progress, and not only because she would derive benefit if Kitty ultimately chose him.
After dinner the men withdrew for only a short time, and then the card tables were brought out. They all played loo, Kitty placed at the table with Mr. Fitzwilliam and Georgiana. Her emotions were enough in turmoil that she played very poorly, Mr. Fitzwilliam’s attention was too fixed for him to even know what he did, and Georgiana, being the only one of calm mind, was constantly telling the others that they played amiss. After one unprosperous round, Georgiana was happy to see the tea things appear and relieve them from the game.
“Perhaps you might read?” she suggested earnestly to her cousin, wishing more than anything not to return to her position at card. It was too mortifying for her to see her cousin so oppressed.
“Yes, you read very well,” Kitty added softly.
Mr. Fitzwilliam could not refuse now and the conversation at once commenced about what would be brought out. Mr. Fitzwilliam only had a small library, the books of sermons would not do at all, he had not much poetry, but would Shakespeare fit the part? He had one or two volumes, but their contents did not suit the day. He was thinking of what else might be offered. The other guests were wanting something with excitement.
“I have hardly anything fit to read, but I have a few volumes from circulation, I have yet to read them myself. You must tell me what is proper.”
This was a matter of great excitement, and the books were soon produced. There were three volumes, all the first one in the set, and each a novel. Kitty was surprised and then pleased, for among the five girls many novels had passed between the sisters at home. The novels purchased or borrowed were soon worn from five sets of hands and five different modes of placement around the house. It was the great fortune of Jane to read them first, on command of their father after some quarrels, and the unfortunate lot of Kitty to read them last. She was by no means the youngest, but Lydia had a long habit of stealing them away when Mary was finished and hinting at the plot, much to Kitty’s disappointment. She lived in constant fear of catching a conversation that would ruin her pleasure among her older sisters. Kitty had not thought that a clergyman would indulge in such pleasant books, for she had read two of them herself, but perhaps her knowledge of the clergy was incomplete, her most ready example was her cousin, Mr. Collins.
She proposed herself one of the volumes, having read it a few weeks ago but having enjoyed it immensely, and the others were persuaded by her earnestness. Mr. Fitzwilliam read very well. Kitty had heard him at church and thought him proficient but now she was in rapt attention. His reading was lively and bore more emotion than his usual tone; she found herself loving the book more for his treatment of it. As he read, she found herself imaging that more nights might pass in this kind of felicity and that it might be in her power to secure that sort of lasting happiness. When he stopped, she wished he had continued and, in a few moments, they were obliged to go.
Kitty felt wretched as she quit the house, for noticing Mr. Fitzwilliam when her heart should be turned towards another. The pleasure of the evening was dashed by her self-reproof, and she longed to be home at Pemberley, where at least her separation from Mr. Fitzwilliam perhaps would lessen her pain. She felt her heart bound to Captain Ramsey; she had given him a certain proof of it, and that she must remain constant in that affection. Kitty could not yet bring herself to regret the offering she had made, but she wondered now if she had been too quick to give it. Her fate rested in the outcome of a war and the feelings of a sailor.
Chapter 40 – June 1815, Brussels
Lydia Wickham, pretty, lively, and careless, with a reckless husband and an illiterate mind, seemed to unite some of the worst characteristics of humanity; and had lived nearly twenty years in the world with very little that seemed to distress or vex her. While it is certain that her marriage, her station, and her way of living were not close to the way she had been brought up, she seemed to hardly notice. As long as there was enough for a new dress or bonnet, enough men to admire them, and somewhere to lay her head after a ball, she appeared undisturbed. She was kept from real poverty that her spending might have destined her for by the support of her family, and she received those gifts with little thanks or thought. Lydia felt none of the shame she might have for living nearly as a dependent of her parents when she was married and should be supported by her husband.
The 14th of June had begun rather well, for the Wickhams had been invited to the Duchess of Richmond’s ball, along with everyone else of any import, and Lydia was bursting with excitement. After so many months of waiting, war itself could not be more distant in her mind. Brussels had offered every pleasure she might have imagined, there were men to flirt with, dresses to buy, schemes to execute, gossip to attend to, and dances to attend. Lydia’s fondest wish would have been to remain in Brussels, as it was those few months, and to bask in folly and caprice forever. Yet, it was not to be.
The curious evening began when she returned to her rooms to see Colonel Warren leaving them. She entered warily, but Wickham was only dressing for dinner and nothing at all looked amiss. Lydia had no will to broach the topic and they ate quickly before heading to the ball.
It was a grand affair, every man of rank in the British military invited. Lydia was in raptures. She glided about the ballroom, smiling at every young man she could see, and flirting with any she spoke to. Lydia could feel no better importance than filling her dance card with men far outranking her sisters’ husbands. She could not have imagined that Jane or Elizabeth would feel shame rather than pride in her behaviour. For her, there was only gratification and vanity, there was nothing else that could fill the hole in her heart.
It was far past midnight when Colonel Warren found her. She was waiting for the next set to begin but something had occurred, she did not yet know the reason. The music did not play, and the dancers were beginning to look around them for some explanation. Lydia was only annoyed at first, she could not understand what was happening.
“It will be today,” he said to her in an under voice, “the French march, and we must prepare to meet them.”
Lydia, having almost forgot their grand purpose, was sanguine, “Then it shall be a few days I imagine, before I see you again.”
Colonel Warren looked at her, and Lydia imagined for a moment that this was the true gaze of a man in love. She, disillusioned by her husband, took it as almost nothing. New sounds were filling the room, the violins had not continued, no, there was hushed speaking and women crying. Lydia looked back at him; he was not afraid. Where was her husband?
He began to explain, quickly and calmly, what she must do if the French army reached the city. Lydia listened intently, though fear was only beginning to grip her heart. The girl who never looked at tomorrow was suddenly forced to face it. She nodded vigorously as he finished the instructions.
“Why are you telling me all of this? Where is Wickham?”
Colonel Warren only smiled sadly, “If I trusted him to protect his wife, I would not have sought you out. I am concerned about your safety, Mrs. Wickham.”
Lydia heard this nearly as a declaration and she did not know what to think. Her jovial spirit wished to assure him of the same, to smile, to flirt, and to make promises that she could never keep. Something stayed her words; she looked back at him and saw an earnestness that had never been directed at herself. It must be folly; she was bound to Wickham. She offered her hand and he brought it to his lips. She offered him a sincere smile and only could say, “May I soon hear of your returning to me.”
He was gone.
Wickham found her next, and she watched her careless husband as he spoke almost the same words, “We have our orders, the French come tomorrow.”
She watched him speak and saw his fear, his hesitation. She did not ask for honour from such a husband, she could not even ask for duty. Lydia saw no love in his parting expression. He did not say anything about her safety.
“If I do not return,” Wickham said, and Lydia searched his face for any indication of true affection, she saw none, “I have spoken to the Colonel, he will ensure your protection.”
This was something like care and it was all Lydia was to expect. He held her one last time, took one last look, and disappeared into the throng of fine gentlemen and weeping ladies. Lydia found Eleanor, crying bitterly, and in an almost pure act of friendship, accompanied her home and stayed with her that night. Lydia almost envied the love that moved Eleanor to tears, almost had the taste to appreciate it. Here she was, cared for by a man that she might truly esteem. Lydia had chosen her husband and she had chosen poorly. No amount of tender flirting would fill the hole in her heart. For the second time in her life, Lydia began to feel something like regret.
Yay!