4. Chapter 4
25 April, 1814
Rosings, Kent
My Darling Wife,
How I wish you were here with me! It is selfish, I know, as Lady Catherine would do everything in her power to make you miserable and you would leave exhausted and cross, but I hate to be without you for more than a day or two. I am sleeping terribly. I keep reaching for you, but of course you are not there.
How are you keeping? Are you sleeping well? I hope your maid remembered to put an extra brick in the bed. Without me, you will be dreadfully cold at night. Kent is already warm and I can feel summer just around the corner, but I know we are not so lucky in Derbyshire.
My aunt is improving. The doctor says she will make a full recovery, but she is not to walk on the injured limb for at least a fortnight, longer if necessary. She is impossible, as you can imagine. She is certain the doctor is wrong and that she will be right as rain in a few days.
It was that sort of thinking that got her into this mess in the first place! Had she only listened to the doctor when he told her to stay in bed, like anyone with a fever should, but she simply had to traverse the stairs on her own. She did not even hold the railing! It is no wonder she fell.
Anne has not recovered from the fever as yet. I only saw her briefly, but she looked wan and thin. I worry for her if she does not improve from this. The doctor said it is possible she will never fully regain her strength if the fever persists, and she was not strong to begin with. Hopefully she makes a full recovery soon.
How I wish you were here to cheer me! You would tease me and make some terribly inappropriate joke about my aunt, and we would laugh and for that moment, all would be well. Your laugh does that for me. When I hear it, everything seems right in the world.
I delivered your letter to Mrs. Collins and she asked me to deliver another to you. I am enclosing it here. She seems happy enough with her lot; she hardly sees her husband at all and she seems to take great joy in running her house. I am so glad you refused Collins when he proposed. I cannot imagine coming here every year, seeing you as his wife. It would be torturous. I can hear you now saying it would be significantly more difficult for you to be married to him than for me to merely have to see said marriage on occasion, and you are right of course. You would have been miserable. I like to think Collins would have, too, but I fear he lacks the intelligence to recognize his own misery.
I am equally glad I did not agree to a marriage of convenience as my family wished me to do. Now that I have known love, now that I have a true partnership, I cannot imagine the cold union so many of my friends have. You are all that is warm and lovely, and life without you would be cold indeed.
I think I may leave here in two days’ time, but it will depend on the health of my cousin and aunt. If Lady C’s fever returns, I will be here even longer. Similarly, I will remain if Anne’s condition worsens.
My uncle is even more anxious to leave than I am. He paces the hall and walks circuits around the larger rooms. It has been raining constantly the last three days and we are all desperate for a little fresh air and exercise.
I look forward to our reunion, which will likely be the only good thing to come out of this trip.
Yours,
FD
26April, 1814
Rosings, Kent
Dear Elizabeth,
I just sent off a letter to you yesterday, but it cannot be helped—I thought you would want to know the news right away. Anne’s fever broke in the night. She is still unwell, and she is warmer than the doctor would like, but it does not rage on like it did. She has awoken several times now and taken a little broth, which we are all encouraged by.
My uncle has decided that someone must intervene on Anne’s behalf. It is about time he did so, as he is the only one who can. My uncle de Bourgh named him Anne’s trustee; Lady C would listen to no one else. She would not even listen to her brother—regardless of the fact that he is an earl and she reveres titles—if he did not hold financial sway over her.
Lord M will take my aunt and cousin to the seaside as soon as he can arrange a house for them. And the sooner I will be returned to you!
Yours,
FD
2 May, 1814
Pemberley, Derbyshire
Dear Husband,
I was sitting down to write a reply to your letter of the 25th when I received your last. Is Anne continuing to improve? It is good that your uncle has agreed to escort them to the seaside. It might do them a world of good. Anne will benefit from the sea air and Lady C will have a fresh coterie of servants and neighbors to assist with her invaluable advice.
I wish we had known you would be called to Kent immediately upon our return home. If we had known, I would have stayed on in London and we would have been a few hours’ drive from one another. Now you are a full three days away—four if the roads are bad. I cannot like such a distance, but I do not wish to be selfish. Stay with your family until your aunt is better, or at least until Anne’s fever breaks and they make traveling plans in earnest. You will not feel settled with yourself if you do any less.
Your sister is well. She is playing the pianoforte morning and night. I think she likes the Harrison boy, though she has said nothing of it to me. She is too shy to speak to him in company, but she looks at him a great deal and hangs on his every word when he is speaking to others. Does that sound like anyone you know?
And I have news! Jane is expecting a babe at the end of summer, or perhaps September. Our mother is beside herself, of course. She is not happy Jane has moved away from Netherfield. It was such a grand house, and would it not have been perfect for the babe to have its grandmama so nearby, etc. She will never forgive me for enticing Jane to the ‘wilds of the north’, as she calls it. Jane has already asked me to stand godmother, regardless of the babe’s sex, and I have agreed. Do not be surprised if Charles asks you to be godfather.
Perhaps I should not ask in a letter, but then we have always said best in our correspondence what is difficult to speak aloud. Are you disappointed we do not yet have a child? I know we had said it would be good to wait a time if possible, and then there was the disappoint of this last winter, but it has been eighteen months since we wed. If you were feeling sad or unhappy or anything of the sort, you would speak to me, would you not? Or write if speaking were too difficult?
I know it is awkward, but I think these things are handled best in the light. When we did not speak of it, I was filled with worry and anxious feelings every time I thought about it. I worried you were disappointed in me, and, well, you know what I felt. Once I knew that we felt the same way, I was filled with relief.
Just so you know, I would be happy were it only ever to be the two of us. You have always been enough for me, and that has not changed. I will be happy with a house full of children. I will be happy with one child to play with my sisters’ gaggle of little ones. I will be happy regardless, Fitzwilliam, because I have you, and you are the best husband I could wish for, and I can imagine no better life than the one I have with you.
Now I shall speak of something lighter and leave you with a smile. You are so very handsome when you smile, my love.
Let us speak of your birthday. What would you like for your gift this year? I have something small for you already, of course, and I have a few activities planned that I feel certain you will enjoy, but I have been remiss in asking you what you would like. Please tell me if there is something you’ve been wanting.
Have you seen Charlotte’s daughter, by any chance? I am desperate to know which of her parents she favors, but I can hardly ask my friend such a thing. Be a dear, won’t you, and look closely at the babe and let me know? I know how much you dislike such things, so I will reward you handsomely for the information when you return.
All my love,
Elizabeth
8 May, 1814
Rosings, Kent
My Lovely Wife,
How can I tell you how very much I love you? You have a way of making the most difficult thing seem simple. It is an extraordinary gift. And you are right—these sorts of things are best handled in the light. So I will tell you that no, I am not sad that we do not yet have children. It has only been a year and a half since we wed and I am not yet ready to share you. Perhaps that is selfish of me, but it is true. I wish to have you all to myself for a while longer yet if we can manage it.
I am not worried or concerned. Most Darcy families tend to be small in number. Most have only one or two children, the most prolific of my cousins has four. Because the family skews towards males, it has never been an issue. I do not think there is anything wrong—it is early days yet—and though we suffered a disappointment this winter, it did prove that you have no problem conceiving. After all, we were trying to prevent it and it still happened. Does that not bode well for the future?
Rest easy, my love. I too would be happy to be just the two of us for all our days. In fact, there is a part of me that quite likes the idea, though I know it is odd to say it. That is what I love about us, my dear. I have no fear in sharing my feelings with you, such is the bond between us. That is why I feel no burning need for fatherhood. I am wildly pleased with my wife, and there is no emptiness in my life which needs filling.
If you were to present me with a child, I would be ecstatic, but that is more because I would share it with you than anything else. Perhaps I will feel differently when the day arrives, but at this moment, the most appealing thing about fatherhood is that I will experience it with you. You see, my dear? I have complete faith in us. All will be well.
I have done as you asked and seen the Collins baby. The babe has her father’s nose, the poor dear. She is only six months old, so it is difficult to tell, but I think she will have hair like Mrs. Collins and perhaps her mother’s smile as well. At least that is something.
I will look forward to my reward for such observations when I return to Pemberley.
Now, about my birthday. Is it ridiculous of me to say I want you? Nothing much else appeals to me at the moment. Wrap a bow around yourself, wearing as little or as much as you like, and I shall count myself fortunate.
I should be right behind this letter for I intend to leave the day after tomorrow. Anne is doing better, though she is far from strong, and Lady C can get about with a cane if she does not spend too long on her feet. My uncle has secured a house for them in Margate and they will leave thither in a week.
This visit has been a trial, but I am glad I have done my duty to my mother’s sister. You are right, my darling, as you almost always are. I would not have been satisfied had I not come. The guilt would have eaten at me.
I cannot wait to see you.
Yours,
FD
13 May, 1814
Pemberley, Derbyshire
Dearest Fitzwilliam,
I am so glad your cousin gave you the idea to write to me and even gladder that we have kept up with it. I think we should mark every special occasion with a letter. (And the not so special ones, too.) My bundle of letters is growing quite impressively. I shall have to get a keepsake box to hold them all.
You are on your way back to me as I write this, so this letter shall not be posted. But I will leave it on the desk in your chamber so you might see it when you arrive and have something to read while you are settling in.
Oh, how I have missed you! Three weeks is entirely too long to be parted from you. Next time, I will insist I accompany you. I have been dreadfully dull without you. Poor Georgiana has been watching me like a hawk, afraid I will faint away from missing you.
Now, about your birthday. I do not wish to waste precious time discussing it when you arrive (I have much better plans for you when I see you) so I shall tell you all now. I have planned a picnic with your cousin and your favorite neighbors (the Grimsbys and the Carters), but we will end early for I know how you hate overlong events. Georgiana will go home with the Grimsbys and spend three days there with Miss Amelia. I will have you all to myself then. Well, I shall have to share you with the steward, but hopefully there will not be too much for you to oversee just then.
Then we will have an intimate dinner, just you and me. I thought we might eat in the conservatory, and perhaps look out of your telescope if the night is clear. And then I shall give you your present. I will not tell you what it is, for that would spoil the surprise, but I think you will be pleased.
I cannot wait to see you, my love. This separation has been awful and I never wish to repeat it. Twenty-two days is twenty days too long.
Your Loving Wife,
Elizabeth
16May, 1814
Pemberley, Derbyshire
My amazing, bold, perfect wife,
How do you manage to astound and impress me, even now, after all our time together? When I told you I wished for you with a bow on for my birthday, I never thought I would be so lucky as to actually receive it. Seeing you sitting on my bed with a ribbon about your bare waist was a sight I shall not soon forget. It is etched indelibly into my mind, along with the mischievous smile you wore and the look of passion in your eyes.
You undo me, my heart. I don’t think you understand how much. When I see you like that, when you are so breathtaking I can feel my heart racing, I lose the ability to string together words coherently. I am sure that in those moments, you wonder what is wrong with your husband, but I assure you, I am merely overwhelmed by your beauty, and your incredible grace, and your generosity in the way you give of yourself so freely.
I feel unimaginably lucky.
I have heard other men speak in the club, and I know of the marriages of some of my friends, and it may be ungentlemanly to say so, but I clearly have the best wife—I am the luckiest of them all. I have begun to think our ardor will never cool. The more I have you, the more I want you. The more I know you, the more I long to know. You are the most wondrous thing in my life, my sweet Elizabeth, and I wish to make you happy all my days.
I have an idea for your birthday. Since you gave yourself to me so prettily on my birthday, what if on yours, instead of a bow, you wore the jewels I am having made for you, and nothing else? Though that sounds like a gift for me, so perhaps it is selfish.
Thank you again, my dear. You are pure delight.
Your helplessly enamored husband,
Fitzwilliam
Fitzwilliam,
I love that idea. I shall meet you here again in July for my birthday gift.
E