A Christmas Delivery
Melanie Rachel
Colonel Richard Fitzwilliam stared into the dying embers of his study fire, the letter from his cousin held loosely between his fingers.
Outside, the December snow fell lightly, steadily, muffling any sounds of the world beyond his window.
The grandfather clock in the hall chimed nine, though it might as well have been midnight for all the darkness that seemed to gather around him.
He raised a glass of brandy to his lips and took another swallow before returning his attention to the familiar handwriting. This was perhaps the fifth time he had read it since its arrival three days prior.
Fitzwilliam,
I trust this letter finds you well, though reports from mutual acquaintances suggest otherwise. I shall not press you on matters you clearly wish to keep close, but know that your prolonged absence has been noted by all who hold you dear.
Christmas approaches, and Elizabeth insists I extend our warmest invitation for you to join us at Pemberley.
I know you are comfortable at Granville Cottage, but I can assure you that while Pemberley will be lively, it will not be overly crowded- just us, the Gardiners, and the children.
Even Georgiana will remain with her husband at Monmouth Hall this season.
You would have your usual rooms, and your privacy would be respected.
Elizabeth especially wishes to see you. She worries, Richard. She has mentioned more than once that a letter is a poor substitute for the presence of a beloved cousin and friend.
The Gardiner children ask after their “Cousin Colonel” with alarming frequency. Young Edward has taken to marching about with a toy sword. Margaret has composed a Christmas song, which she assures us cannot be performed until you are present to hear it.
I will not pretend to understand what you have experienced, nor will I offer hollow words suggesting that time alone is not what you require. But I have observed that solitude, while occasionally necessary for reflection, rarely provides the solace one seeks.
Our door remains open to you no matter the season, but I do hope you will come soon. A room will be prepared and a place set at our table regardless.
You remain in our thoughts.
Fitzwilliam Darcy
Fitzwilliam folded the letter along its well-worn creases and placed it on the small table beside him.
The fire popped and shifted, sending a shower of sparks up the chimney.
Darcy's words, measured and sincere, carried none of the pitying tone that had become so familiar to him since his return from Belgium.
No empty platitudes about the glory of victory, no uncomfortable silences when conversation drifted toward his experiences.
Darcy truly was the very best of men.
His fingers moved to his right thigh, absently massaging the ache that deepened with the falling temperature. The French cavalry officer's sabre had cut to the bone, and though the army surgeons had saved the leg, they could not prevent the persistent pain that came with damp weather.
He reached for the writing desk drawer and withdrew a sheet of paper. This would be his fourth attempt at a response.
Dear Darcy, he began, then paused, pen hovering above the paper.
What could he say? That he woke most nights with the screams of the battlefield ringing in his ears? That he could not bear the thought of young Edward’s innocent games of war, knowing the reality? That the Christmas celebrations would only remind him of the men who would never celebrate it again?
As he hesitated, a drop of ink fell from his suspended pen and ruined the paper.
Fitzwilliam stared at it as though it was a blot upon his soul.
With a muttered curse, he crumpled the paper and tossed it into the fire, where it caught quickly, the flames briefly illuminating the room.
He would not burden them with his darkness, nor spoil their Christmas with his inability to find joy in simple pleasures.
Better to remain here, where the only person disturbed by his nightmares was himself.
The colonel poured another measure of brandy and raised it in a silent toast to the empty room. “Happy Christmas, Darcy,” he murmured, before draining the glass in one swallow.
The clock had just struck ten when Fitzwilliam, still nursing his third glass of brandy, finally turned his attention to the rest of his post. Bills and correspondence from his solicitor comprised the majority, items that could wait.
But a letter bearing unfamiliar handwriting caught his eye.
The paper was of modest quality, and the direction had been carefully written in a neat, feminine hand.
He broke the simple wax seal and unfolded the single sheet within.
14 Old Mill Lane
Millfield Village
12th December 1815
Colonel Richard Fitzwilliam,
Sir, you will not remember me, though we were briefly introduced at an assembly in London before my husband, Major Thomas Blake, departed with your regiment for the Continent. I write to you now as his widow, and as the mother of his only child.
Thomas wrote to tell me he was carving a wooden horse for our boy James. When I wrote to the army about Thomas’ belongings, whether they had been sent home, I was told they had not kept track of such things in all the chaos, but that I could write to his colonel to inquire.
I understand that in the turmoil of battle and its aftermath, such small items might be forgotten or lost. Yet Christmas approaches, and James asks daily for some token of his father.
I have a miniature, but nothing else to give him that would connect him to the man he barely remembers, to demonstrate that he was in his father’s thoughts though he was far away.
We are staying with my sister in Millfield Village, some sixteen miles north of your estate. If you still have the horse in your possession and it would not be too much trouble, I would be most grateful if you could send it to us before Christmas.
I remain, sir, your humble servant,
Eleanor Blake
Fitzwilliam closed his eyes, the letter trembling slightly in his grasp.
Blake. Of course he remembered Blake. How could he not?
The major had been one of his most reliable officers, steady under fire, respected by his men.
And on that terrible day near the farm at La Haye Sainte, when French cavalry had broken through their square, Blake had saved him from a killing blow.
The man was the reason Fitzwilliam’s head was still attached to his neck, the reason he lived with only a slight limp and a little pain when the weather turned cold.
And Blake’s actions were the reason the young father had not returned home.
He opened his eyes as it became difficult to breathe. The room around him wavered, caught between the comfortable furnishings of his study and the blood-soaked mud of Belgium.
His gaze moved to his desk drawer. With unsteady fingers, he pulled it open and reached into the back corner.
There, wrapped in a square of cloth, lay a wooden horse the size of his fist. His batman had found it among Blake's effects after the battle, along with letters to his wife and a miniature portrait of mother and child.
He had meant to forward them all. He truly had.
But then came the surgeries, the fever, the long, painful journey home.
And somehow -in the months of recovery, his return to England, and his subsequent withdrawal from society- the wooden horse and the other items had remained undelivered, something that now weighed on him more heavily than he allowed himself to acknowledge.
Fitzwilliam turned the horse in his hands. The carving was skillful -Blake had spent a great deal of time working on it during the long evenings as they awaited the decisive battle. While they had been required to pretend all was well -required to dance while the world was crashing down about them.
Carved from a single piece of walnut, Blake’s horse captured the proud arch of the neck and the curve of the haunches that gave it a suggestion of movement.
Delicate gouge marks were used for the flowing mane, and the legs were slightly exaggerated for sturdiness, which allowed it to stand on its own.
He placed the horse on his desk and reread Mrs. Blake's letter. Sixteen miles north, he thought, a day's journey there and back, perhaps less depending on the roads.
There was nothing he could do to save Blake now, but he could take a bit of the major back to his family.
***
Dawn broke cold and gray as Fitzwilliam's carriage pulled away from Granville Cottage. It was one of his brother’s properties and while it was not an estate, it was far too large for the one person who occupied it.
He had dressed in his uniform, though it was slightly large for him now.
While he got dressed, he instructed his batman to pack for an overnight journey just in case, and to wrap up the items he meant to deliver to Mrs. Blake.
The wooden horse was safely tucked in an inside pocket of his greatcoat, wrapped now in a finer cloth and nestled in a small wooden box that had once held his medals.
Snow had fallen heavily overnight, and the roads were challenging. By noon, they had made less progress than he had hoped, and the skies threatened with more snow. His leg ached fiercely, the wound protesting both the cold and the jostling of the carriage.
As they passed through a small market town, Fitzwilliam observed people hurrying about with parcels and baskets, final preparations for the approaching holiday evident in their purposeful movements.
A group of children ran past, laughing as they threw snowballs, and he found himself thinking of Darcy’s very young son and how he had always thought their children would grow up together.
Why he had thought this when he was so often away from England at war, he could not recall.