Chapter 5

Colonel Fitzwilliam stormed out of the library, Darcy’s words still ringing in his ears. Fitzwilliam could not believe that Darcy had spoken so about Mary or had been so vociferous in his condemnation of their attachment. Hastily calling for his horse from the bewildered footman who scurried behind him, Fitzwilliam made his way towards the stables and Beauregard. He needed to put some distance between himself and his cousin before he said something that he would later regret. As soon as his horse was ready, Fitzwilliam mounted his steed and rode off at a quick pace down the main road towards the gates of Pemberley. Longing for such a ride, Beauregard responded with enthusiasm to his master’s urging, quickening his stride into a maddening run. Fitzwilliam allowed himself to be caught up in the sensation of the quick movement, the cold winter air lashing through his hair and against his face, Beauregard straining beneath him as he fought to keep up with his master’s demanding pace. He passed nearly two hours in such activity before his temper was cooled and his mind was cleared. He was quite a distance from Pemberley then, perhaps thirty miles or more. Looking about his surroundings to get his bearings, he found himself near an overlook with a view of rock-studded hills and a gentle winding river below it. Dismounting his horse, Fitzwilliam patted Beauregard affectionately before walking towards the edge of the ridge.

Fitzwilliam gazed out over the landscape, the wind sending his coat tails streaming from behind him. A little distance away he spotted a small town nestled by the river. The town had the appearance of all that was peaceful and quaint with small thatched roofed cottages lined along its dirt roads and a few buildings of some significance scattered about it. Sighing as he took in the prospect, Fitzwilliam seated himself on a large rock to take a rest. His mind wondered to the events of the morning, causing him to shake his head in disbelief at both his own behavior and that of his cousin. He could not remember ever having had such an argument with him before. Darcy and Fitzwilliam had always been close, even closer than he was with his own brother Henry, and usually of the same mind. Their proximity in age served to make them fast playmates as boys. They would scamper about the grounds of Pemberley or Allendale House, his childhood home in Matlock, looking for mischief and adventure. They took special pleasure in vexing the housemaids by tracking all manner of mud and dirt into the house and secreting frogs into the kitchen. As they grew in maturity and put aside their boyish pursuits, their relationship had changed to one of mutual respect and confidence. By the time Darcy’s father had died during their final years at Cambridge, it only seemed fitting that both be named guardian of Georgiana. Since then, Fitzwilliam had been a steady source of support and aid to Darcy through all manner of troubles such as the ordeal with Georgiana and Wickham, Darcy’s search for Miss Lydia Bennet and Darcy’s struggle to win the acceptance of Elizabeth into the family. In all of these struggles Fitzwilliam had been a most trusted advisor, advocate and agent. Fitzwilliam’s heart ached over the realization that the one for whom he had been such a source of support would now refuse to lend his own.

The cold bite of the afternoon air soon began to affect Fitzwilliam, causing him to shiver unconsciously. He had not realized how long he tarried on the hilltop surveying the scenery distractedly. The sun had already begun its lazy retreat into the west.

“It will not do for me to freeze to death,” Fitzwilliam sighed aloud, turning from the scene before him and walking towards Beauregard, who released a weary neigh as he neared. Fitzwilliam’s stomach growled loudly in response, causing him to laugh aloud despite himself.

“Don’t worry old boy,” Fitzwilliam replied as he gently stroked the animal’s side, responding to both his stomach and his horse. “We shall get you some rest and hay anon.”

Fitzwilliam made his way down towards the small town he had spied from the hilltop in search of a tavern or inn where both he and Beauregard could find sustenance. The sun had already set as he reached the outskirts of the village. Warm light cast by newly lit lanterns illuminated the road before him. As he neared the town square, shopkeepers could be seen busying themselves with preparations for closing.

“Excuse me, good sir,” Fitzwilliam called to a merchant busily engaged in sweeping the steps in front of his shop, “could you direct me to the nearest saloon or inn where I might find refreshment for my horse and myself?”

“Sir, I’m afraid we don’t ‘ave no saloons as it were. This be but a small village. We do ‘ave an inn just a quarter mile down the way. It ain’t quite fit for such a fine gentleman but the ale is cold and the stew is hot.”

“That will serve me well enough,” Fitzwilliam murmured before nodding his thanks.

The merchant affected an awkward bow in return as Fitzwilliam spurred Beauregard towards the inn. He found the shopkeeper’s description of the inn apt. It was a very small establishment of merely two stories in height that could not have held more than five or so guestrooms. Despite the small size of the inn, the service was adequate. As soon as he dismounted, a boy met him to take Beauregard to a small stable in the rear of the establishment where he would be provided with water, hay and a relatively warm place to tarry. Fitzwilliam found the appearance of the inn as well managed as the service. The décor was simple as were the furnishings, and the inn was kept impeccably clean. The floors were freshly scrubbed, as were the windows that glowed warmly from the candles placed before each one. At the bar a few older men with gray hairs and rounded bellies sat nursing pints of ale and exchanging local gossip. A matronly woman with a round pleasant face kept bar, watching over her patrons as would a mother hen. The entire establishment had the air of a pleasant country inn, quite the opposite of the rowdy smoked filled officer’s clubs that he was accustomed to. There would be no drinking himself into a stupor this night. Spotting a table tucked away towards the back of the room, Fitzwilliam sat down hoping that his luck in finding a well managed inn would extend to being offered an edible meal and an adequate selection of spirits.

A rosy-cheeked girl of no more than fifteen years greeted him with a smile. “Good evening, sir. What can I get for ya?”

“A glass of brandy will suit me as well as a hot meal. Would I be lucky enough to be able to have some roast lamb or mutton?”

“Oh, I’m sorry sir, but we don’t ‘ave any roast tonight,” the waitress replied, shaking her head and sending her blonde curls dancing. “But, we do ‘ave shepherd’s pie and some roast carrots. That’ll do ya just as fine as any roast. My ma makes the best shepherd’s pie this side of Derbyshire.”

“Well, then shepherd’s pie it is,” Fitzwilliam smiled weakly, unsure if the girl’s statement really did much to recommend the dish to him. “And just bring the entire bottle of brandy.”

The girl curtseyed shyly before running off to her task, leaving Fitzwilliam to brood as he saw fit. His homey surroundings were unable to penetrate the blackness of his mood, although the pleasant smells wafting from the kitchen caused him to reassess his previous judgment of the shepherd’s pie. The girl soon returned with a glass and a bottle of brandy, which Fitzwilliam accepted with pleasure. Pouring himself a cup of the strong spirits, Fitzwilliam sighed with a strange contentment. Perhaps it was better this way. What he needed most of all was a quiet place to collect his thoughts rather than a flowing tap to numb them. After having one glass of the stuff, Fitzwilliam debated pouring himself another before resolutely pushing the bottle away. It had been two solid weeks since he had imbibed to the point of drunkenness, seeking to dull the ache of memories he wished long forgotten.

Fitzwilliam’s thoughts turned to his deployment in Louisiana, one of the former American colonies where one of the most devastating battles of the so named War of 1812 was waged. Fitzwilliam still bristled from the irony of his being dispatched to a pointless war a few scant months before Napoleon escaped from Elba. Fresh from battling Napoleon during his first reign of terror on the continent, Fitzwilliam had been deployed for over a year to this southern state to take part in the ill fated battle of New Orleans, home to festering swamp lands, withering summer humidity and some of the most troubling memories of his reckoning. It was there in January of 1815 where he saw so many of his men fall to a ragtag amalgamation of American soldiers, militiamen and Jean Lafitte’s band of pirates. He was forced to watch helplessly as the Americans shot one of his men after another from the safety of their garrison as General Pakenham blindly continued the assault. Dashing, young and a quick rising star in both the military and society, Edward Pakenham had fought alongside Fitzwilliam in the Napoleonic campaigns. Pankenham’s successes there showed him to be a capable leader; however his promise as a military strategist was soon cut short. Exhausted, dispirited and lacking in both supplies and confidence in their young general, the men were ill prepared and little able to mount a strong defense much less storm the American ramparts. The ladders his men had spent the better part of a week constructing had been ordered left behind in Pakenham’s lust for battle. At least Colonel Fitzwilliam was able to ensure that his men were properly outfitted with rifles and sabers. Other regiments were less prepared, barely arriving at Chalmette in proper uniform. Pakenham had predicted an easy victory before leading his men to their defeat and his own death. He fell to an American musket ignorant that the battle was a fruitless effort; the Treaty of Ghent had been signed days before effectively ending the war in a draw. More than 700 British soldiers lost their lives with another 2,000 captured and wounded. A paltry 71 Americans met similar fates.

Fitzwilliam returned to England a man of changed demeanor and outlook. His thoughts permanently fixed on the events of January 1815. He could not close his eyes without encountering the pale ashen faces of his troops haunting him from the grave. Sleep evaded him and his waking moments were spent reliving the events of that day. While he had thought the hustle and bustle of life in London would be a welcome distraction, he soon found the society there grating. He could no longer play the role of the charming and witty younger son of an earl. Balls, dinners and nights at the opera became a chore where the only thing that enabled him to appear the picture of civility was a flask of brandy. The nights where his attentions were not demanded by the ton were spent at the officer’s club. Even more exhausting than playing the role of his former pleasant self while in society was doing so for his closest relations. Lady Matlock had been the only one not fooled by his charade, recognizing his change in demeanor as soon as he set foot in the house. Fitzwilliam had done his best to avoid a discussion with his mother, spending the majority of his time the officer’s club or on various errands about the town. However, his efforts proved useless in the face of his mother’s concern. Fitzwilliam remembered the eventual confrontation with some shame.

“You are not happy, son,” Lady Matlock began after closing the door to the morning room behind her.

“Mother, whatever do you mean?” Fitzwilliam replied, turning from his mother to lean against the mantle of the fireplace, his customary retreat when he felt put upon. “I have never felt better. I couldn’t be more pleased to see London and my family after such a long absence.”

“Richard Anthony Fitzwilliam,” his mother began assuming a voice of mock anger. “You do remember that lying is a sin, do you not? You cannot fool me, Richard. You are miserable and it pains me greatly to see it. You have been home for nearly a month and it is plain to see that you are not yourself.”

Fitzwilliam sighed deep in his chest before turning to face his mother. “And what if I am not myself, mother? Do I not have the right to be a little miserable?”

“I am worried, Richard, and so is your father. We were so afraid for you when you were sent to that awful war. I know that it must have been a horrible experience. I understand…”

“Please, do not tell me that you know anything of how I am feeling,” Fitzwilliam interrupted her, his voice laced with bitterness. “You cannot begin to understand the things I have seen. Have you ever seen your friends slain before your eyes and their bodies thrown without ceremony into shallow mass graves? No, I do not think you have, mother. I do not think you have ever held a man while he lay struggling for his last breath. When you have lived one moment outside of your gilded cage then you can presume to tell me how I feel!”

Fitzwilliam’s rant was met with a cold silence from her ladyship, who stood before him looking years older. Hurt and anger struggled for supremacy over her countenance as she stood looking at her son as if he were a stranger. He had never seen his mother look so small or bewildered as she did then and he immediately regretted both his harsh words and his tone.

“Mother, I am sorry. I…” Fitzwilliam began, his voice having lost the bitter edge of before.

“Do not ever presume to speak to me in that manner again,” his mother began her voice a near whisper as she regarded him with sad grey eyes. “Yes, I have never known the suffering that you have experienced, Richard, nor do I desire to. However, I do know how to be grateful to those who have given me all that I have.”

Fitzwilliam watched dumbly as his mother turned from him and exited the room quietly. For the next few days, he could hardly bear to look his mother in the eye. It was then that he decided to quit his parent’s home for the quiet of Pemberley. He left London without sending word of his early arrival, seeking immediate rest for his mind that had been so addled by war. He was drawn back to the silent frost covered gardens of Pemberley; the long varied paths through quiet forests that he knew awaited him there, a fitting landscape for his dark mood. He had never expected to find his source of peace in the form of a young woman, especially one who was herself in mourning.

Fitzwilliam pinched the bridge of his nose in frustration before reaching once again for the brandy. He had promised himself not to give way once again to the bottle, but surely one extra glass of spirits would do him little harm. He had managed to down little more than a few gulps before his cheery waitress was by his side again with a tray of steaming food. Acknowledging the food, Fitzwilliam mumbled his thanks in a low tone before taking a bite of the offering. He was surprised to find the food more than tolerable and was moved to offer a sincere smile to the girl who stood by his table waiting expectantly for his reaction.

“I believe I am now inclined to agree with you, miss. This is perhaps the best shepherd’s pie I have ever had the pleasure of eating.”

The girl smiled broadly in response, before scampering off towards the kitchen to inform her mother.

Fitzwilliam let his mind stray to more pleasant thoughts of Mary as he silently devoured his meal. When he had first happened upon her only a few short weeks ago, he had no idea that he would find his solace in the countenance of a gentle fairy. Yes, that is what he had thought her then, when he nearly trampled upon her there by the lake. She had seemed to grow right out of the frost covered ground like some dark winter sprite, all clad in somber black with such bewitching brown eyes that he was immediately rendered speechless when he first looked upon them.

Fitzwilliam closed his eyes and leaned back in his seat, taking another sip of brandy as he recalled every detail of the lady that had captured his heart. He found Miss Farthington to be so very different from the ladies of the ton with whom he was accustomed. Fitzwilliam thought most of the ladies of his acquaintance overly talkative, prattling on incessantly with the latest gossip or opinions on the fashion and the like. Miss Farthington, however, was usually quiet and reserved, yet when taken with flights of fancy or speaking of her childhood home she overflowed with such a torrent of words that if spoken by another they would seem foolish but when coming from her lips were each turned a treasure. While other ladies of his acquaintance received his attentions with coyness, Mary’s darting eyes and quick intakes of breath at his flirtations or touch attested to her virtue and delicate sensibilities. Mary’s voice further belied the gentleness of her spirit, her tones both light and soft yet not requiring one to strain to hear her. He remembered his surprise upon first hearing it, supposing that his first notion of her being a fairy was correct as he found himself constantly enraptured by whatever words passed over her lips. During her daily stories with young William, Fitzwilliam found the sensation of listening even more delightful than the vision of her seated before him. That is not to say that he did not find her beautiful, although that is not the word he would use to describer her appearance. Beautiful had the notion of something that needed to be caged or cosseted to preserve its value. Mary’s beauty was not that of one forever under the shade of a parasol but was all that was natural and fresh; her sun kissed nutmeg complexion defiant of the frost of the English winter.

If there was but one feature that Fitzwilliam could affix the beginnings of his infatuation to it was Mary’s eyes. He could now understand Darcy’s fixation with the eyes of his wife. Indeed, a pair of fine eyes in the face of a pretty woman was a thing to be admired. Mary’s eyes were large and unguarded dark brown pools that shone with warmth and earnestness. Every turn of her mind or heart could be seen in them. They sparkled with wonder and mischief during her stories for little William, easily bewitching both of her listeners. When afraid, they seemed to grow impossibly larger and more beautiful revealing the vulnerability of a woman who strove to ever have the appearance of composure. When she was miserable and helpless, as he had found her that morning, they had the power to draw any man to her defense, making her sorrow his own and willing him to make all well at any cost.

While he had only known Mary for a short time, it was enough for him to be sure of his own heart. The past two weeks had been some of the happiest and most peaceful of his recent memory. He had not known that he could find such pleasure in listening to children’s tales or by simply being in someone’s presence. He smiled to himself as he pushed his now empty plate away from him. Six years ago he thought it impossible that he would again have the option to marry for love. A moderately pretty woman with a comfortable fortune was all he desired in a wife. Elizabeth and Darcy had shown him the hollowness of such a desire. At that time his cousin had the courage to do what Fitzwilliam would not do, as well as an income sizable enough to make such a union possible.

Darcy. Fitzwilliam found himself growing more disappointed with his cousin than angry. Fitzwilliam wondered why Darcy would not support him in doing the very thing he had done. Indeed, his marriage to Elizabeth brought on the disapproval of a few powerful people in his family circle, including the Earl of Matlock. Yet, Fitzwilliam’s parents had warmed to Elizabeth after a few months and with the birth of William Bennet, their previous objections were forgotten. The ton was also cold in their initial reception of Mrs. Darcy, but quite a few parties were won over when the character and merits of the lady were demonstrated. Mrs. Darcy was not liked by the entire ton, to be sure. Some ladies were still sore that a country girl of little social standing was able to wrangle a catch such as Darcy when their charms proved inadequate.

Fitzwilliam was not silly enough to think he would not face similar or even greater resistance from his family and society in marrying Miss Farthington. While no one could raise his or her nose at Miss Farthington’s wealth or accomplishments, Darcy was correct in his estimation of the censure his marriage to a black woman would bring. Although parliament had abolished slavery in England and the African heritage of Queen Charlotte was widely known and even celebrated in verse and art, Fitzwilliam was well aware that the opinion of the common man was not in keeping with that of parliament or the crown. However, Fitzwilliam regarded the love of Mary as more valuable than the good opinion of anyone. Fitzwilliam had little desire to be received at balls or assemblies and he no longer found pleasure in the hollow social life of London. All he required to make him happy was a comfortable house to live with the wife of his choosing and their children.

Placing a few coins on the table in payment, Fitzwilliam rose from his chair with an air of determination about him. He would not let Darcy’s displeasure keep him from the object of his affection. He would take his one chance at happiness and secure Mary as his wife.

The return to Pemberley was more arduous than Fitzwilliam had expected. A heavy snow had begun to fall during his tarry at the inn and the roads grew more hazardous by the minute. It took him nearly four hours to arrive at the front steps of Pemberley, his muscles sore from the ride and his aspect altogether disheveled. He desired nothing more than a hot bath and a warm bed as the footman divested him of his overcoat that was wet with snow. He was surprised to find Mary just crossing the foyer as he entered.

Her warm greeting and smiling face chased the chill of his long ride from his limbs as he watched her hurry towards him. Her brown eyes squinted with worry as she examined his person and treated him to a barrage of anxious questions. Fitzwilliam smiled despite himself at her display of concern, pleased that she missed his presence. His smile disappeared pleasure mingled with pain at her confession that she thought she had a hand in his sudden departure.

He took a step towards her, closing the small distance that separated them, as he stretched out one hand to caress her cheek. Her skin was warm and soft as silk.

“Mary,” Fitzwilliam whispered as he bent his head towards her, “you could never drive me away unless it was your most earnest wish.”

Fitzwilliam’s heart raced at her response to his touch. Her eyes never left his as she leaned into his touch, her lips parted slightly in an inaudible sigh. She could not have known what a pleasing picture she made then, her eyes wide and searching and her head bent gently to the side. Before he knew what he was about, he found himself drawing closer to claim her lips in a kiss. The entrance of Elizabeth and Georgiana prevented him from achieving his goal. As he watched Mary’s figure advance up the stairs and out of sight, he silently cursed himself for both his lack of discretion and the timely entrance of his cousins.

“Colonel Fitzwilliam, would you care to explain what has transpired here tonight?” Elizabeth asked Fitzwilliam, her cheeks slightly flushed from the shock of what she saw.

“Mrs. Darcy, I…I assure you there is no need to be concerned. Miss Farthington and I were just…we were simply engaged in an innocent conversation,” Fitzwilliam replied, slowly recovering himself as he became more aware of the impropriety of what had just taken place.

“Conversation? Is that what they are calling it these days? Well, it appeared to me as if you were about to kiss Miss Farthington. Is this assumption incorrect, sir?” Elizabeth’s voice was even as she sternly addressed him, but Fitzwilliam thought he detected a glimmer of amusement in her brown eyes.

“I… I assure you, Mrs. Darcy that we were indeed conversing. However, if you would like to discuss this matter further, may I suggest that we retire to the music room?” Fitzwilliam had suddenly become aware of the footman and butler who had attended him upon his return and who undoubtedly witnessed the entire event. He suddenly felt more like a silly chit of sixteen years rather than a gentleman of nearly four and thirty.

Elizabeth assented to Fitzwilliam’s request, bidding Georgiana goodnight as she began to lead the way to the music room. Georgiana frowned at her apparent dismissal before mounting the stairs determinedly to her chambers. Fitzwilliam watched this display of his young cousin with some surprise, before Elizabeth’s gentle clearing of her throat recalled him to his purpose.
Fitzwilliam followed Elizabeth into the music room; his jaw set tight expecting the worse. As Miss Farthington’s guardian, Elizabeth had the right to be most severe in her judgment of his scandalous behavior. It was even within her right to force him to marry Miss Farthington, a sentence he would undoubtedly be happy to carry out. However, Fitzwilliam was unwilling to bring censure to Miss Farthington and so strove to appear the picture of contrition.

“Elizabeth, I must extend my sincerest apologies for my reckless and imprudent behavior this afternoon,” Fitzwilliam began, dropping his shoulders and speaking in his most earnest tone. “However it may have appeared, you must know that I would never think of compromising Miss Farthington. I await your good judgment as to my sentence. I am fully prepared to do my duty as a gentleman.”

Fitzwilliam waited for Elizabeth’s response, watching the woman expectantly. He was surprised to see her determined frown inch towards a smile before breaking out into a full-blown laugh. Fitzwilliam was taken aback by this display, as it was quite the opposite of what he had anticipated. When Elizabeth’s mirth showed no signs of abating, Fitzwilliam soon found his feelings shifting from astonishment to offense.

“I fail to see what is so humorous, Mrs. Darcy,” Fitzwilliam stated firmly, his pride slightly wounded.

“It is you that I find amusing, dear cousin,” Elizabeth managed between deep breaths as she fought to regain her composure.

Fitzwilliam frowned in response, finding the offered answer to his question a further affront to his dignity. Noticing the dramatic turn of his countenance, Elizabeth erupted into another bought of laughter.

“Richard, you are indeed Fitzwilliam’s relation. You both detest being laughed at,” Elizabeth offered once her laughter had subsided. “But, how is one expected to react to such a speech? You know me well enough, dear cousin, to know that I would only find amusement in such an oration. From what I observed of your ‘innocent conversation’ a forced marriage to Miss Farthington would not be the unwelcome sentence you describe. ”

Fitzwilliam sighed in relief, comforted by Elizabeth’s ability to find humor in any situation.

“Oh, do not suppose that you are to go unpunished,” Elizabeth continued, noticing his sigh of relief. “While I know you well enough to have no cause to fear for Miss Farthington’s reputation, I do find this whole situation rather confusing. For the first time in quite a while I find myself completely uninformed of what is going on in my own home. Something happened this morning at church, of that I am sure, for it must have triggered the other goings on of today. I promise to absolve you of all guilt if you would be so kind as to inform me of all that you know.”

After bidding Elizabeth to sit, Fitzwilliam went on to explain to her all that had occurred from Mary’s experience overhearing the parson to his subsequent argument with Darcy and flight from Pemberley, leaving out the portion of his argument concerning his feelings towards Miss Farthington. Fitzwilliam did not want to distress Elizabeth with details concerning the words they exchanged nor was he anxious to hear more arguments against his courtship of Mary. Throughout the narration, Elizabeth’s countenance displayed a range of emotion from sadness to anger to bewilderment. Fitzwilliam felt his own emotions being stirred in the relation, causing him to rise from his seat and begin pacing about the room.

“Well, that certainly explains a great deal. Mary’s unrest this morning, my husband’s ill temper, your absence from dinner and the exchange between Mary and yourself in the hall,” Elizabeth replied in low tones, her eyes downcast. “Tell me Richard, do you truly love Mary?”

Fitzwilliam abruptly quit his pacing, turning towards Elizabeth with a look of disbelief.
He did not recall speaking of his affection for Miss Farthington, having endeavored to avoid the subject if possible.

“Do not look so surprised, Fitzwilliam,” Elizabeth answered his questioning look, rising from her chair and regarding him with a warm smile as she walked towards him. “I had an inkling that there may be some sort of attachment growing between the both of you. However, it was not until this evening that I was assured of your feelings regarding Mary.”

“Have I been that transparent?” Fitzwilliam smiled ruefully. “I must say that I am heartily disappointed in myself. My years of military training have not served me well in the art of subterfuge.”

Elizabeth smiled broadly at this declaration, before taking her cousin by the hand and leading him towards a couch.

“Your face betrays it all, cousin. But, take heart and rest assured that your skills as a soldier in the King’s army are not in question. I am sure that you can conceal matters of state well enough, but matters of the heart are all together different. They have a way of making a man not quite himself,” Elizabeth smiled sweetly, as if recalling some pleasant memory before continuing. “Richard, I confess I am somewhat surprised for I cannot recall when I last saw you so smitten with any lady, and this after spending three seasons with you in London.”

Fitzwilliam regarded Elizabeth thoughtfully for a moment. He had missed his conversations with her during his long absence. Elizabeth had an easy and open way about her that made him feel instantly at ease. He remembered their first conversations at Rosings with fondness. Then he had felt like he had found a kindred spirit with whom he could let down his guard and be at peace. He had fancied himself in love and had spent the next five years chastising himself for not acting on his feelings and securing her hand before his cousin ever thought to. Now he knew better than to dwell on the past and curse his inaction. If he had been bolder then, less concerned with the good opinion of the ton and securing a comfortable life, he would not have had the chance to meet Mary.

“Yes, I suppose it is rather surprising. My heart may have not been easily touched in the past,” Fitzwilliam sighed deeply. “May I speak candidly with you, Elizabeth?”

“Yes, of course, Richard, you know that,” Elizabeth replied with a gentle smile.

“I have not been a happy man for quite some time. I will not go into all the details now, but until I rode into Pemberley a fortnight ago, I had not known such happiness or such heartache as I do now. I had thought that joy and I would forever be estranged from each other until I met Miss Farthington,” Fitzwilliam paused, rising from his seat to stand by the nearly extinguished fire. He tossed another log onto the fire and poked the embers distractedly.

“This may sound foolish, but to even be in her presence brings me such a contentment and peace that I never wish to leave her side,” Fitzwilliam continued before turning to face Elizabeth. “She is truly everything that is lovely and desirable in a woman and although I am sure I do not deserve her affection, I would be the happiest of men is she would consent to be my wife. Neither Darcy’s displeasure nor any supposed familial censure can sway me from that course.”

The serene smile that had graced Elizabeth’s face during Fitzwilliam’s confession was quickly replaced by the pursed lips and furrowed brow of confusion. “Fitzwilliam told you he was against your attachment?”

“Yes, he told me in no uncertain terms that he would not support me in seeking her hand. Darcy thinks that our alliance would be ‘beyond the bounds of reason’ and that I should be wary of aligning myself with a woman whose status is decidedly below my own,” Fitzwilliam repeated his cousin’s condemnation in a tone laced with bitterness and irony.

“No, cousin. That cannot be right. My husband would not say such a thing,” Elizabeth replied, her good humor gone in an instant.

Fitzwilliam sighed, “For your sake and my own, Elizabeth, I wish I were speaking an untruth.”

“I still fail to see why he would say such a thing. He supported Anne’s marriage to Mr. Thackery despite his relative poverty of both income and connections not to mention our own marriage. Unlike Mr. Thackery or myself, Mary does not lack fortune…”

“But she lacks connections, Elizabeth,” Fitzwilliam interrupted wearily. “In this aspect I fear that your husband is of the same mind as Parson Geoffries. Neither of them can see beyond her skin. The daughter of a merchant Darcy could support. Nay, even the daughter of a barkeep would be more palatable to him than the daughter of a slave.”

Elizabeth sank into her chair, disbelief and grief written over her features. Fitzwilliam watched Elizabeth with some concern, desiring to bring his friend some comfort but not knowing what to say. They sat for several moments in silence, each lost in their own thoughts on the subject. Fitzwilliam wondered if it were indeed wise to reveal all to Elizabeth as her mood was markedly altered by his confession.

“Richard,” Elizabeth began, turning to her cousin with an earnest look. “I must confess that I am much grieved by my husband’s opinion on the matter. I know his consent is necessary for you to court and wed Mary, but beyond that, I could not bear to see your friendship suffer for this or to have our family forever divided.”


“Elizabeth, do you mean to tell me that you are against my attachment for the sake of family peace?” Fitzwilliam sighed, his heart sinking at her words. He had thought that in relating all that he might secure Elizabeth as an ally.


“No, Richard. You mistake my meaning. I support you in this, surely I do. However, I cannot bear to witness any bitterness between you and Fitzwilliam. I intend to speak to my husband, plead your case and perhaps help him to see reason.”

“Elizabeth, you cannot begin to understand how happy you have just made me,” Fitzwilliam beamed, kissing his cousin’s hands in thanks.

“There is one other matter that we must discuss before I petition my husband on your behalf,” Elizabeth began once her cousin had released her.

“Yes, of course. Anything, cousin.” Fitzwilliam replied, the smile never leaving his face as he resumed his seat on the couch next to her.

“It is clear that you are very sure of your own heart, but are you sure of Mary’s regard for you? I can believe the sincerity of your declarations, but before we battle the collective will of my husband and your parents, we should be sure that Mary is as much in love with you as you are with her.”

“Mary’s regard?” Fitzwilliam replied with a look of confusion laced with doubt. “I…I am sure that she would receive my attentions with pleasure.”

“Are you very sure, Richard?” Elizabeth replied. “Miss Farthington has known you for a scant few weeks. While I have detected some partiality on her part, I wonder if she has had the time to truly known her own heart. I remember a certain gentleman who being very sure of receiving a positive response to his solicitation ended up very surprised and disheartened at a certain lady’s vehement refusal.”

“Do you speak of that Collins fellow? Darcy told me of his ill fated and comical quest for your hand. Do you mean to compare me to that foolish chap?” Fitzwilliam asked.

“No. I am sure that no one could find any resemblance between the two of you save for you both being men and my cousin,” Elizabeth laughed, her humor returning. “No, I mean to compare you to your esteemed cousin Fitzwilliam Darcy.”

“Darcy!” Fitzwilliam exclaimed. “Do you mean to tell me that he applied for your hand only to be refused?”

“Yes, it is true,” Elizabeth replied with a broad smile. “I am very surprised that Darcy never told you that particular story! However, I suppose a gentleman would be more forthcoming with tales of another man’s folly than with his own. It all took place at Hunsford. Mr. Darcy proposed rather badly and I resolutely turned him down. At the time, I couldn’t have been more surprised or offended by such a proposal while he could not have been more surprised by my vehement refusal.”

“That is a shocking story, indeed,” Fitzwilliam replied shaking his head in disbelief. “However, I can believe my cousin capable of delivering a botched proposal.”

“It was not the manner of the proposal that won my refusal,” Elizabeth continued, regarding her cousin seriously. “Rather, I was offended that he should presume to propose at all. You see, although I knew of Mr. Darcy, I really did not know him as he should have been known. With a little more communication and time, my eyes were opened and I was able to see that he was the very best of men. When he renewed his addresses, I happily accepted them knowing that I truly loved him.”

At the conclusion of her tale, Fitzwilliam appeared to be very out of sorts. While he himself had just this morning named the feeling that was growing within his breast upon first meeting Miss Farthington, he had assumed that the lady joined him in a mutual regard. The thought of Mary disliking him or even being indifferent troubled him greatly.

“You think that Miss Farthington would reject my proposal of marriage?”

“I could not say one way or the other, Richard. My advice is only that you allow her every opportunity of knowing you better. She will know her own heart in time.”

“In time…” Fitzwilliam replied, rising from his seat dejectedly. “Time is one of the things that I do not have mastery over.”

A short silence settled between them as Fitzwilliam ruminated over all that had passed between them. He rubbed his eyes tiredly, the fatigue of the evening catching up with him. Elizabeth’s support had given him cause to hope again. Yet, those hopes were now threatened by doubt.

“Richard, I have an idea,” Elizabeth began. “I have been formulating a plan to have a Twelfth Night ball here at Pemberley. I know we had originally envisioned a quiet holiday, but I thought a ball would be an excellent way to prepare Mary for all of the social events of the season. Several families of note from throughout the area would be invited, including your brother the Viscount and his wife Lady Rebecca. There remain eighteen days between now and Twelfth Night. During that time I will prevail upon my husband and you can be about the business of divining the feelings of Miss Farthington.”

Fitzwilliam readily agreed to Elizabeth’s idea, encouraged by her support despite his growing doubt as to Mary’s regard for him. Elizabeth entreated him to take heart that all will work out for the best. On that note, Fitzwilliam bid his cousin goodnight after escorting her to her chambers and headed toward his own with a lighter spirit.

Elizabeth entered her bedroom chamber with a weary body but a mind too engaged to easily allow her sleep. Her spirits were very much disturbed by what Richard had related to her. While she was surprised to learn the depths of her cousin’s feelings for her charge, she was more surprised by her husband’s vehement opposition to such a union. She had never known Fitzwilliam and Richard to be in such disagreement and while the familial strife vexed her greatly, she was more saddened over the reason for the discord rather than the discord itself.

Five years into their marriage, Elizabeth had grown to believe her husband was truly the best of men. While they had their occasional spirited disagreements, she knew her husband to be of a fair and temperate mind. All vestiges of undo pride and pretension had long been erased from his character. He was a fair and generous employer and landlord as well as an ardent philanthropist. He supported a variety of charities and causes from abolition to homes for the rescue of wayward girls even when the support of such causes was not popular in their social circle. Yes, he was the very best of men in all these areas. Elizabeth never had cause to be ashamed of or disappointed in her husband until now. For the first time in their marriage she began to doubt if her husband had truly changed from the man who had offended her so at Hunsford.

Laying down her brush, Elizabeth eyed the door adjoining her chamber to that of her husband with some trepidation. As always, the door was unlocked. The pair had seldom slept apart save when Mr. Darcy was away on business or she was visiting friends or relations elsewhere. Other than those necessary occasions, she had only locked her door during their bitterest disputes. One such disagreement found them feuding with one another for nearly a week, her door remaining locked the entire time. Their reconciliation had been particularly poignant, with each promising to never let the sun set with their anger still in high tempest. However, this night Elizabeth could not bring herself to speak with her husband; much less share the same bed with him. With a sigh, Elizabeth rose from her seat and firmly locked the door.