Without Undue Pride

Chapter 2

CHAPTER 2

June 1811

Meryton

Elizabeth descended the stagecoach at the George Inn, carrying her small valise herself. Once upon a time, if she had arrived at the coaching inn in Meryton, her sisters would have met her. Her father would have sent the carriage, and they would have ridden back to Longbourn together, laughing and talking.

To be fair, she had only disembarked in Portsmouth yesterday. In her letters to Longbourn, she was uncertain when, or how, she would make it back from Spain. A walk would suit her body and her mind better now, anyway. She had spent a hundred miles jostling in a confining carriage and feared she would be sick if she had to get into another one.

She also had no money to spare to hire a carriage for only a mile when her two legs worked perfectly well.

When Longbourn was in sight, Elizabeth set down her bag and looked at the house. How could it feel like home after she had been a married woman, after what she had endured in Spain? But where else could she go with no money and her husband’s family estranged from her? There was no reason to take rooms in Portsmouth and pick up the pieces of the brief life she and Fitzwilliam had there. Longbourn was the most sensible place.

It was with a pang of regret that she remembered Jane would not be at Longbourn. She was married now, and while Jane was only a few miles away, Elizabeth had hoped for her sister’s steady, comforting companionship.

Elizabeth was about to pick up her bag when she noticed a rider turn sharply across the field and head toward the lane. It seemed he had been going in the other direction and then noticed her, determined to intercept her.

It was only when he was nearly upon her that she recognised him, and she started in surprise. He looked astonished to see her, his mouth slightly open and staring at her in silent amazement.

“Good afternoon, Mr Darcy,” she said, curtseying. “I am sorry. I did not know you at first.”

He touched his hat and dismounted in a fluid motion. It looked as though he considered offering his hand, but then kept his arm at his side. She noticed his black armband, and all of her grief flooded back, but this time it did not sweep her up in its wake. Of course, Mr Darcy was grieving, too. Her husband had always said his cousin was closer to him than his own brother.

A silence stretched between them, and her dead husband’s presence seemed to fill it. “I am exceedingly sorry for your loss,” he said.

He had written all those sentiments in reply to the letter she had sent him in March after the battle. “I am sorry for yours,” she said in return.

Mr Darcy stood entirely still. She was not even certain he breathed. Fitzwilliam had always said he was a reserved man. To spare him from having to express any sort of feelings, she asked, “What are you doing here of all places?”

“I might ask you the same thing,” he said, not unkindly. “Mrs Bingley thought you might come to Longbourn soon if you arrived in Portsmouth this week.”

“Now I am thoroughly confused. How did you know I finally secured passage?” She had written to Lady Fitzwilliam in the weeks after her husband’s death, but there had been no point in communicating her final travel arrangements to her husband’s parents. They had made it clear how little they wanted to do with her, despite her news.

“I am on a wedding visit to Bingley and your sister.” Mr Darcy hesitated, as though questioning if he should say anything further. “I think Bingley is forcing his new wife to host wedding visits for all of his friends in a proud attempt to show her off.”

His observation surprised her. Despite how warmly her husband had spoken of him, she had assumed Mr Darcy to be devoid of taste and information because he was often silent. Other than a pleasantry at her wedding, she hardly heard him speak the two other times they had been together. She wondered if he was one of those silent types of men who had too many thoughts to share, or none at all.

Still, he had smiled when he mentioned his friend’s fondness for her sister. For that reason and for her husband’s memory, she must like Mr Darcy.

Jane had met Mr Bingley through Fitzwilliam and Mr Darcy in January. She had married in April and, likely with her mother’s influence, had convinced Mr Bingley to take a house in her neighbourhood.

Elizabeth was glad to hear of Jane being admired by her new husband. “Her letters sounded cheerful, but that is Jane’s nature. I am happy to hear it confirmed by an impartial observer.”

He gestured to her luggage and asked, “Are the rest of your things at the inn? Bingley would have sent his carriage to meet you, even if Mrs Bingley did not insist on it.”

The rest of her things were sold long ago. “I would never presume on Mr Bingley. I have not even met him.”

“He will be the first to insist that you call him Charles and that you are due every consideration he would show to his own sisters.” He hesitated again when she only shrugged, and finally said, “If you had written when you landed in Portsmouth, I would have sent my carriage. ”

She could not let tears fall now, not before she walked into her parents’ home and not in front of a man she scarcely knew. The rest of her husband’s family wanted nothing to do with her, and being amongst her own people would be little better. No one within Longbourn’s walls could offer her real comfort, and here this man was wishing he had sent his carriage for her.

Mr Darcy was a near stranger, and while her family loved her, they were not a selfless, sympathetic group. As much as it hurt, she was truly grateful to have this notice from him. She sensed Mr Darcy was too reserved to offer her empty pleasantries.

“That would have been a great inconvenience,” she said around a thickness in her throat.

“Not for Fitzwilliam’s wife.”

She met his eye at his resolute tone. Neither Fitzwilliam’s parents nor his brother had said any such thing when she told them she was a widow.

Whispering “Thank you,” she rested a hand on her stomach, stretching her back. It was a relief to be out of a carriage and off the ship. Her skirt pulled taut over her stomach as she stretched, and she saw Mr Darcy’s eyes widen.

Lord and Lady Fitzwilliam must not have mentioned her news. Would he comment on it? Likely not; he was not a man for talking.

As she picked up her bag, intending to take her leave, he said, “Before you go, are—do you, do you by chance have happy news?”

If she did not feel so weary in her heart and her body, she might have laughed at his noble attempt to keep his gaze on her face and not her stomach. “Yes,” she said firmly, “and it is happy. I am due the end of October.”

“Did he—” His lips pressed together. Mr Darcy then offered his congratulations.

“He knew,” she murmured, looking at Mr Darcy’s boots. She raised her eyes to see his surprised expression. “You wanted to ask if he knew he was going to be a father before he died, but you are too well-mannered.” She grinned, remembering their mutual astonishment to be expecting so soon. “I want everyone to know how thrilled he was. He wanted to tell all his family—although you were the only one he thought would write back with any pleasure at the news. But I only suspected at the end of February, and the battle was on the fifth of March.”

He smiled sadly. “He always put something off if he could. Never in a hurry.”

“Yes, that was very like him.”

Even though she shifted her luggage from one hand to the other, impatient to be on her way, he held out a hand. “I realise, madam, that you want to go home and you have your own mourning to feel. When you are ready, will you please tell me how he died?”

The memory of that tableau of death and destruction slashed through her, although the wave of nausea accompanying it might be due to another cause.

“I only want to tell that story once,” she said through a steadying breath, “and Jane and my parents and friends will all ask me.” If she was going to talk about the battle and its aftermath, it would be with someone who loved her.

He looked hurt, although he tried to hide it, like she had taken something from him. Of course, the man her husband loved better than his own brother would want to know how he died. “Someday, maybe,” she added to soften the blow, but not meaning it. “But not now.”

“I will not keep you,” he said formally, all emotion now gone from his face. “I return to town soon to meet my sister. If you have a letter for his family, I would be happy to take it.”

She nodded politely, but she wanted nothing to do with them. They had not even offered to pay for her passage for the sake of bringing their grandchild home. “Please tell Jane not to rush to Longbourn tonight. Let her enjoy her home and her company. I will call at Netherfield tomorrow.”

Elizabeth clutched her luggage handle and made her way down the lane, feeling Mr Darcy’s gaze follow her most of the way .

It was a grand surprise to everyone at Longbourn when the butler opened the door to find Mrs Fitzwilliam. Cries of surprise, of congratulations, of condolences all overwhelmed her. Mary offered platitudes on mourning, Kitty asked a thousand questions about a baby Elizabeth had not felt move yet, and Lydia wondered why she did not just marry another soldier and stay in Spain.

“Well, Lizzy, I am sorry about Colonel Fitzwilliam. He was a charming man,” her father said when they were all settled in the drawing room. “I suppose you shall live here for the time being, since your rich relations do not want you.”

It was the truth, and it was not unexpected, but for the sake of her unborn child, it still hurt. “I have no need of them, Papa. Fitzwilliam had five thousand pounds in the Portsmouth bank, and there will be a widow’s pension too.”

“I would scream at those Fitzwilliams for not doing more,” said Mrs Bennet. “As though they would miss a few thousand a year for my girl. Perhaps you should write to them, Mr Bennet?”

Elizabeth could not help but lift her eyes. Her father had not even troubled himself to get her out of Spain. When had her father stirred to do anything like exertion for his daughters?

“What could I say? If their widowed daughter-in-law trapped in a war in a delicate condition could not convince them, I doubt a disapproving letter from me would shame them. Lizzy will remain here.”

“Of course she will stay here,” her mother cried. “She is not living on her own on only a few hundred a year. Besides, we must see her married again.”

Elizabeth gave an involuntary start. Marrying again was out of the question. She would never compromise her integrity and marry without affection. And she had learnt that by loving someone, you were always vulnerable.

“We will send her to town next winter after the baby is born, and she will do just as well the second time,” her mother went on. “The younger son of an earl! Perhaps her second husband will be the heir, if you can give her a little more money? ”

“I have none to give her, not with the way you spend on yourself and the other girls.”

Her countenance must have betrayed her distress because her father took her hand. “Now, now, Lizzy, I would never begrudge you some money for a new gown or things for the baby. You will always have a home here, and I daresay it is more comfortable than your billet in Cádiz.”

She tried to smile. After the battle, everything had fallen apart. Longbourn had physical comforts, but as she looked around at her family, it did not feel like home either. And once her father was dead, none of his daughters would have a home.

“I suppose it is too soon for grey, Lizzy,” her mother said. “But we bought plenty of fabric once we heard the news, and you need a new gown. I cannot imagine how you came home with only a single bag.”

“Because I sold everything I had to survive” was what she wanted to say. It was the truth, but it was neither helpful nor kind. They had no notion what it was like as a widow in the midst of war. Neither had she when she had first met Colonel Fitzwilliam and promised to follow him anywhere. Lizzy Bennet had been innocent and eager for adventure. Since then, she had learnt she could only rely on herself.

“Are you still sad, Lizzy?” Lydia asked, looking concerned. “It has been three months since he died. Let us all go to Meryton and buy you a new hat. We will have a grand time together to cheer you up.”

Kitty nodded her eager agreement, and Elizabeth let them think she shared their enthusiasm. Lydia and Kitty were fifteen and sixteen and had not seen the things she had seen. She was twenty and had met, married, and lost a husband in two months, was now due to have his child, and she was entirely alone.

“Hill,” cried her mother, ringing the bell. “We must send a note to Jane! You will enjoy Bingley,” she said, turning to her. “Such an amiable young man. His friend has been with them a fortnight.” Her mother frowned. “Silent man, but we must endure him.”

“I know Mr Darcy,” she murmured. There was no need to mention their meeting by the lane. His gentle consolation had been a greater kindness than anything her family had said about her loss .

“That is right,” said her father. “He is your cousin, after all.” He laughed. “Maybe he can convince the Fitzwilliams to give you a little money for the potential heir presumptive.”

Her family was well-intentioned but of no real solace to her, and the Fitzwilliams had been cruel. She would not rely on anyone other than herself, and she certainly did not expect Mr Darcy to intercede on her behalf.

Darcy had wondered if he might hear news of Mrs Fitzwilliam’s return to England while he stayed with his friend and her sister, but it had shocked him yesterday to recognise the woman lugging her own bag down the lane. It had hurt him more than he had expected to see her, to be reminded of his cousin’s death and the void his loss left behind.

The entire family had been shattered by the news that Fitzwilliam had died on the battlefield, but their grief was complicated. Mixed in with their sorrow was anger that he had left a wife who had, in their minds, estranged them from their son. His aunt would hate Mrs Fitzwilliam until the end of her days, and therefore so too must her husband.

Grieving had, consequently, been a lonesome process.

Darcy entered the breakfast parlour before his hosts. The Netherfield party received a late invitation to dine at Longbourn yesterday, but Darcy had declined. He had not wanted to be part of the family’s reunion, although in some tangential way he realised that he and Mrs Fitzwilliam were family, even if his aunt and uncle would never admit it.

If he was honest with himself, he had turned down the invitation because he did not know how to act around Mrs Fitzwilliam. And she was pregnant; that complicated things immensely.

Her family would naturally be elated, but he wondered if Fitzwilliam’s parents knew about the baby. They must; Mrs Fitzwilliam would have written to them. They had never mentioned it, not even at the funeral. They knew, and they still wanted nothing to do with the woman who had, in their minds, stolen their son from them.

What had Milton said when he learnt of it? It would pain him since his own wife struggled to carry a baby. Milton had always disliked his more charismatic younger brother. If Mrs Fitzwilliam’s child was a boy, Milton would hate it for being his heir.

Darcy took a long swallow of coffee, feeling it burn his throat. He had not wanted to come to Netherfield, but Bingley insisted, and he would not disrespect his friend’s new wife. Bingley had said he had mourned in solitude for two months and it was time to be amongst friends, and Fitzwilliam would have wanted him to come and be amiable.

Good God, that was a challenge, but he had promised his cousin.

Mrs Bingley and her husband then entered, both with newlyweds’ smiles and glances. A longing for similar companionship pressed on his heart, and he pushed it away.

“You were missed last night,” Bingley said by way of greeting.

For the sake of Mrs Bingley, he said nothing about how he struggled to speak to her forward younger sisters, her pedantic middle sister, her sarcastic father, and her vulgar mother. Or how her widowed sister made him feel a sense of duty and confusion and grief he was not ready to cope with. “I thought it best to allow you to receive Mrs Fitzwilliam without another party in the way.”

“You would have been welcome,” Mrs Bingley said.

Darcy was certain she meant it. Although she had a placid temper, Mrs Bingley was generous and wanted everyone around her to be happy. She was not the choice he would have made for his friend, but then Fitzwilliam would have been the first to tell him it was not his choice to make.

“And Mrs Bennet invited several neighbours to dine,” Bingley added. “The table was full, and more families came in the evening.”

He wondered if that was what Mrs Fitzwilliam wanted. She had looked wan and tired by the lane, and being pregnant besides might have been reason enough to want to go to bed after an ocean voyage, a day in a carriage, and trudging a mile on foot.

“Next time, I would be happy to visit with Mrs Fitzwilliam.”

“Your chance is nigh, my friend,” Bingley said, gesturing at the window with his fork. Darcy turned round and saw Mrs Fitzwilliam walking across the lawn to the front door. She was a remarkably excellent walker, especially for one in her interesting condition, and with a pretty figure, too.

“What brings you here, Lizzy?” Mrs Bingley asked while Bingley pulled out her chair.

She had come in smiling, but Darcy thought it faltered as she sat. “Can I not wish to be with my favourite sister and know my brother Charles better? If you must know, I was not ready for morning calls at Longbourn,” she said, avoiding everyone’s gaze. “After last night, well, I simply wanted to be elsewhere.”

Darcy looked round the table, but no one met his eye. Just when he determined whatever had happened last evening would remain private, Mrs Fitzwilliam spoke. “Oh, there is no reason to keep it from Mr Darcy. My aunt Philips and Lady Lucas will talk about it all over the neighbourhood.” She absently stirred her coffee, the spoon clanging as her voice tightened. “My mother is, of course, glad about the baby, but is eager for me to marry again. She put forward a few suggestions for me last evening.”

He paused in bringing a fork to his lips. He may not have approved of his cousin’s union, but he never doubted Mrs Fitzwilliam’s affection for him. “Is that not rather soon?”

“I had several offers of marriage between March fifth and when I left Spain. Healthy, good-natured widows typically do. There are always officers without wives who need someone to do mending and nursing. But I thought my dead husband deserved three months of mourning.”

There was no light in her eyes, no glimmer of humour.

“My mother is worried for you, is all,” said his hostess. “And my father is also worried how you will live if your husband’s family?—”

Mrs Bingley cut off, her cheeks bright pink, but she was too late to take back the sentiment. He shared her feelings, but it would be disrespectful to his own family to comment on them. It was reprehensible how one of the wealthiest landowners in England had cut off his pregnant daughter-in-law without a penny.

Darcy watched Mrs Fitzwilliam heave a sigh and try to recover. “Let us talk about something else. I am calling on Charlotte Lucas after this. I think she was disappointed when I went to Spain and she had no reason to live with me. I know she is weary of Lucas Lodge.”

The sisters talked of their mutual friends while Darcy read the paper, occasionally with conversation with Bingley. It was a companionable breakfast, and a pleasant change from feeling like an interloper in the new union. Bingley and his wife never made him feel unwanted—quite the opposite—but he felt the discomfort, that sensation of his being on the outside of something, some relationship he had yet to experience for himself.

His visit would end soon, and other friends would take his place. Bingley always wanted friends around, regardless of being newly married. While he had no woman in mind at present, Darcy was certain if he were to take a bride, he would bring her home, take the knocker off the door, and refuse to share her with anyone for a month.

Mrs Fitzwilliam’s laughter caught his attention. She was not beautiful, but her face was full of character, and her eyes were striking. He wondered if laughter came as easily to her as it once did. He presumed not, so he returned to his paper, not wanting to take her out of the moment by asking what was so amusing.

An announcement in The Times grabbed his notice as he was about to turn the page. He read to himself, “Yesterday, the banking house of Messrs Cattell and March in Peacock Lane, Portsmouth, we regret to state, stopped payments.”

A painful anxiety intruded, and he wished he could ignore it, turn the newspaper’s page, and keep reading. But that would only delay what he was rapidly coming to fear was a terrible certainty. “Mrs Fitzwilliam,” he said, interrupting her smiles with her sister, “am I right in remembering that your husband put all of his money in a bank in Portsmouth?”

“Yes, I think the entire battalion opened accounts at Cattell and March. Why?”

Her question was only one of curiosity, not concern. He handed her the newspaper across the table. “I am afraid they stopped payments yesterday.”

She took the paper, but there was no distress in her face. “What does that mean?”

Bingley brought a hand to his mouth and looked away when Darcy tried to meet his eye. Would the news be easier to bear if it came from her friendly brother-in-law rather than from him? “It means that this country bank lent too much money and held too few liquid assets. The Bank of England will refuse their paper notes soon, if not already.”

Comprehension, and then fear, moved across her features. “But that just means they will not pay dividends, yes? They will eventually repay depositors?”

“When a bank stops payments,” he explained patiently, “a failure is almost always inevitable. I think in an eagerness for profit, Cattell and March did not keep adequate reserve of coin to support their issues, and it collapsed under the first unusual demand for cash.”

“Like a regiment returning home?” she whispered.

Mrs Fitzwilliam was a smart woman, and he felt for her in that moment of shock.

“How much did your husband have invested?” Bingley asked while Mrs Bingley took Mrs Fitzwilliam’s hand.

“Before we married, he had five thousand pounds in the three per cents in the Bank of England moved into Cattell and March.”

That money would have left Mrs Fitzwilliam with a hundred and fifty pounds a year. Not much, but with a widow’s pension, she would have over two hundred pounds a year to live on. Now, all she had was that narrow pension, hardly enough to support her and not enough to invest and grow.

“Wait until my parents learn about this,” she said into her hands as Mrs Bingley ran circles over her back. “How soon before my mother insists I find a husband?”

“Can the money be recovered?” Bingley asked him quietly.

Darcy shook his head and thought back to Fitzwilliam’s wedding day. How was it only four months ago when everything was so different now? “Do you have his will that said you would inherit all of his property?”

“A will?” she repeated. “It was not with his papers, although he may have written one before the battle. I heard some soldiers did.”

“But if he wrote one, you do not have it?” He realised that the matter was more urgent now.

She shook her head. “I have my marriage lines, and a certificate signed by the regiment’s colonel saying Fitzwilliam was killed in service and that I am his lawful wife. I need that to receive a pension after I settle in a parish. But there was no will in his papers.” She covered her face with her hands again, leaning her elbows on the table. “I do not even have his pay. It was all in arrears. His investments are gone, and I cannot even secure my pension until I settle somewhere, but how can I afford that now?”

Darcy watched Mrs Bingley look at her husband. Some silent exchange passed between them, something he could not understand, but it seemed like an entire conversation passed.

“Lizzy, you can stay with us for as long as you need. I know Longbourn is… Well, staying there would not be conducive to your peace as you recover from your loss.”

“I will not intrude,” she muttered into her hands. “You just married. No one wants a widowed woman about.”

“But you must stay here,” Bingley insisted. “I like you more than my own sisters, you know.”

She gave a little sound between a sob and a laugh.

Darcy waited for Mrs Fitzwilliam to compose herself, to realise what else lay hanging in the balance if she did not have her husband’s will. When she said nothing else, he exhaled slowly. He hated to be the one to bring her further distress on top of what she had already suffered .

“I am afraid, Mrs Fitzwilliam, you have more worrisome matters than only those of a financial nature. Are you certain he wrote no will after you married?”

She raised her head and pierced him with a look. “Why do you keep asking me?”

“Then he named no guardian for your child. And, as little as any man of sense should like it, a widowed mother has no rights to her child unless her husband grants them. Lord Fitzwilliam or Lord Milton could press the court to have custody instead of you.”

Mrs Fitzwilliam paled and rested a hand on her stomach before fleeing the room.