A Christmas Delivery #3
“At least stay for dinner,” she insisted. “It is simple fare, but hot and plentiful. The least I can offer my husband’s commanding officer.”
Fitzwilliam hesitated. The thought of returning to the inn held little appeal, and he found himself unexpectedly reluctant to leave the warmth of this small cottage. “If you are certain it is no imposition…”
“None at all,” she said with a gentle smile that reminded him, oddly, of his cousin Elizabeth's manner of quiet insistence.
“Then I accept with gratitude,” he said, and was surprised to realize he meant it.
As Mrs. Blake and her sister busied themselves with dinner preparations, Fitzwilliam sat by the fire, listening to the wind howling outside while inside, warmth and the simple sounds of domestic life surrounded him.
For the first time in months, the weight of memory seemed to ease, if only for a moment.
He thought of another household preparing for Christmas -of Pemberley's grand rooms and blazing hearths, of Darcy's quiet smile and Elizabeth’s laughter, of the Gardiner children and the Darcy’s small son playing in halls decked with holly and evergreen.
And for the first time since receiving his cousin's letter, he allowed himself to imagine what it might be like to be there, to be part of that warmth instead of alone with his ghosts.
***
The snowstorm that had threatened to bury Millfield Village in snow had subsided by morning, leaving a crystalline world of white under a clear blue sky.
Fitzwilliam, who had been forced to remain after all, woke earlier than was his custom, the unfamiliar sounds of the Blake household already stirring around him.
He had spent the night in a small chamber he suspected was Mrs. Harris’s, after a simple dinner that had somehow been the best meal he had eaten in months.
After a breakfast of fresh bread and preserves, during which James had been too excited to eat, the boy led Fitzwilliam to a small rug before the parlor fire. The wooden horse stood proudly on the mantelpiece where James had placed it before their meal.
“Colonel, sir!” James said, retrieving the toy with careful hands and standing as straight as his six-year-old frame would allow. “I shall be an officer like my father someday!”
Fitzwilliam felt something catch in his throat. The boy’s innocent declaration stirred memories of too many young officers who had ridden proudly to Belgium, never to return. He knelt beside James, ignoring the protest from his bad leg.
“Your father was indeed a fine officer,” he said gently. “But do you know why he went to war, James?”
The boy shook his head.
“He fought so that you would not have to,” Fitzwilliam said, choosing his words with care. “He wanted to make a world where his son could grow up in peace, to be whatever he wished to be -a farmer, a scholar, a craftsman who makes wonderful things with his hands, like this horse.”
James looked down at the wooden toy, considering this new perspective with solemn concentration.
“Thank you, Colonel,” Mrs. Blake said softly from the doorway.
“Not at all,” he replied. It was time to go, he knew, and he stood. “It has been . . .” He paused, searching for the right word. “Helpful.”
She seemed to understand what he could not fully express. “Loss changes us," she said. “But it does not mean that we cannot live on.”
Fitzwilliam stiffened. “Mrs. Blake-”
“Forgive me,” she said quickly. “I do not mean to offend. Only to say that I understand something of what it is to have my world altered beyond recognition. To wonder if joy is still possible.”
Her quiet dignity humbled him. Here was a woman who had lost her husband, who struggled to provide for her son, yet she faced each day with grace and purpose.
“How do you bear it?” he asked, the question escaping before he could consider its propriety.
She looked towards James, who was now proudly showing the horse to Mrs. Harris and asking whether he could learn to carve like his father.
“I have no choice but to bear it,” she said simply. “For him, and because Thomas would expect nothing less of me.”
Her words stayed with him as he bade them farewell a few minutes later.
Before departing the inn with his men, he wrote his solicitor in London to establish a modest pension for Mrs. Blake -not charity, he had insisted, but rightful compensation for the widow of an officer who had died saving his commander's life.
***
Granville Cottage stood silent and grey against the twilight sky as Fitzwilliam's carriage approached. The journey home had been further slowed by the snow-covered roads, giving him ample time for reflection.
His butler greeted him with the brusque efficiency he had always appreciated but now found strangely hollow after the gentle warmth of the Blake household.
“A fire has been lit in your study, sir,” Mr. Wilkins informed him. “And another letter from Mr. Darcy arrived this morning. I have put it on your desk.”
Fitzwilliam nodded his thanks and made his way to the study, where everything appeared exactly as he had left it, as though no time had passed. Yet everything felt different. The room that had been his refuge now seemed a sort of prison.
He did not immediately open Darcy's letter, knowing it would contain further entreaties to join them for Christmas.
Instead, he stood at the window, watching darkness settle over the frozen landscape.
It grew dark so early this time of year.
And yet, soon they would reach the winter solstice and the darkness would begin to give way to light, a little more each day.
Blake had pushed him aside, had sacrificed his life so that Fitzwilliam might live. And what had he done with that gift? Hidden himself away, nursing wounds both physical and spiritual, existing rather than living.
“Tell them I love them.”
Blake's final words echoed in his mind. The major had faced death thinking not of himself, but of those he loved best. What would he think of how Fitzwilliam had spent these months since Waterloo? Would he consider it a worthy use of the life he had preserved at such cost?
With sudden clarity, Fitzwilliam knew the answer. Blake would be disappointed -no, he would be angry. He had not saved his colonel so that the man might slowly drink himself into oblivion in a darkened study, avoiding those who cared for him.
He moved to his desk and took up a pen, drawing a fresh sheet of paper before him.
Dear Darcy,
Forgive the brevity of this note, but I write in haste to inform you that I accept your kind invitation to spend Christmas at Pemberley. You may expect my arrival on the 20th.
I find I have been reminded, rather forcefully, that lives lost during war are best honoured by living well during peace.
Give my love to Elizabeth and the Gardiners. Tell Edward I shall inspect his marching form when I arrive and assure Margaret that I am eager to hear her Christmas song.
I likewise anticipate dawdling your boy upon my knee and filling his ears with any manner of lies about your wayward youth. I promise to make you sound far more interesting than you really are.
Your cousin,
Richard Fitzwilliam
He sealed the letter and rang for Wilkins, instructing that it be sent express to Pemberley first thing in the morning. Then, for the first time in months, he dined at his table rather than taking a tray in his study and limited himself to a single glass of wine.
Later, as he prepared for bed, he found himself thinking of young James Blake and his wooden horse. The boy deserved more than a pension and a single visit from his father's commanding officer. He deserved to know the man his father had been, to hear stories of Thomas Blake's strength and valour.
Perhaps Fitzwilliam thought as he drifted toward sleep, he would write some of those stories down.
For now, though, there was Christmas at Pemberley to anticipate. Elizabeth's warm welcome, Darcy's quiet understanding, the children's excitement. Family, connection, life continued, despite all that had been lost.
As sleep claimed him, Fitzwilliam realized he was looking forward to tomorrow for the first time since he had ridden into battle on that June morning in Belgium.
The wooden horse had delivered its message, not just for young James, but for him as well -that life, with all its joy and sorrow, was meant to be lived fully, a most fitting lesson during the Christmas season.
And somehow, he knew -felt- that Major Blake would approve.