Colonel Fitzwilliam’s Return (Netherfield Returns #3)

Chapter I

It is a truth universally acknowledged that a mother whose son returns home injured must at once consider him unfit for any exertion more taxing than the taking of tea.

Colonel Fitzwilliam, who had survived both battle and the surgeon’s knife with enviable composure, found himself quite undone by her solicitude.

“The only thing that surprises me about this affair,” said Darcy, his voice tinged with amusement, “is that you did not expect your mother’s behavior when you came home with an injury.”

Fitzwilliam, who was pacing the room—a curious activity given the cane supporting his injured leg—turned a glare on his cousin.

Darcy, he noted, appeared insufferably smug.

To say anything would be to provoke his cousin, so Fitzwilliam eased himself into the chair across from Darcy’s and fixed him with an unfriendly glare.

“If I do not escape her mothering, I shall be fit for bedlam within a fortnight.”

“Aunt Susan will see reason,” replied Darcy, still sporting a faint smile.

“If you recall, she has been uncomfortable with your profession since you purchased your commission—now, after you returned with a bullet in your leg, she not only wants to see to your recovery, but she has all the satisfaction of being proved right in her concerns for your safety.”

With a grunt, Fitzwilliam sat back, staring at the flames in Darcy’s fireplace, though seeing nothing of their dance, hearing no crackling, and smelling nothing of burning wood.

As a man who had always enjoyed a close relationship with his parents, he could confess that his mother’s fright over his injury was nothing but a woman fearful for her child’s safety, even if that “child” was now approaching thirty.

It was not her care and attention for him but the way she lingered about him, her insistence on his inactivity—as if a man might heal without testing an injured limb—and her increasing attempts to induce him to give up his profession.

Fitzwilliam was not so insensible as to enjoy the prospect of battle, the possibility of returning home in a wooden box, but it was his chosen life—duty compelled him.

“I need to get away from London for a time,” muttered Fitzwilliam, considering his situation. “If I go to my father’s estate, my mother will only follow me there.”

Fitzwilliam grimaced. “Perhaps I should go to Rosings. At least there I will only need to endure Lady Catherine’s harangues about my carelessness rather than Mother’s excessive coddling.”

Darcy snorted a laugh. “If you will pardon me, Cousin, I cannot imagine that enduring Lady Catherine would prove less aggravating than abiding your mother.”

“Then we are in agreement,” replied Fitzwilliam.

“Some distance may be advisable,” said Darcy as if considering, “but I do not believe you would appreciate three days in a carriage with the roads jolting your injury every few moments.”

“That is the truth,” said Fitzwilliam.

“Then what of Hertfordshire?”

Fitzwilliam was not slow of thought—he understood Darcy’s meaning at once. “Stay with Bingley?”

“Bingley is no longer in Hertfordshire,” replied Darcy.

Perhaps it was merely his perception, but Fitzwilliam thought Darcy a little evasive. Darcy continued to speak, leaving him no opportunity to ask about it.

“The estate, however, is still in his possession. If you want, I could ask Bingley if he would allow you to stay for a few weeks.”

Considering this, Fitzwilliam said: “Netherfield Park, as I recall. Where is it?”

“Southwest of Stevenage, near a small market town called Meryton. Meryton is perhaps an equal distance between Stevenage and Luton.”

“Is there something wrong with the place?” asked Fitzwilliam. “Most families spend the winter at their estates. I might have thought Bingley’s harpy of a sister would be eager to lord over her brother’s estate so she could crow to all her friends about his new consequence.”

Darcy’s hedging persisted; he shifted in his seat as if the question were uncomfortable, before he ventured a response.

“There is nothing the matter with Netherfield. It is not Chatsworth, but it is a serviceable estate of perhaps five thousand a year, suited to a man in Bingley’s position. While I think Bingley enjoyed his time there, his sisters did not agree, claiming the society was savage.”

“And your opinion?” pressed Fitzwilliam, wondering if Darcy would reveal anything.

Darcy’s shrug was not unexpected. “It is a typical country society, though there are no estates of any considerable size in the district other than Netherfield. The people are not polished, but they are no worse than country gentlefolk in any other part of England.”

“As you know,” said Fitzwilliam, “I do not concern myself much with those who consider themselves polished. If Miss Bingley considers them savage, that is almost a point in their favor.”

“I care little more for Miss Bingley’s brand of insolence than you do,” replied Darcy.

“Then it sounds perfect. The difficulty will be convincing my mother to allow me to go alone.”

“Tell her that a friend has offered the use of the estate. She cannot invite herself to stay at a place that you are only borrowing.”

“Then I shall prepare. If you will arrange a meeting with Bingley, I shall be much obliged.”

As he had known, Bingley was agreeable to the suggestion, though Darcy could detect a hint of melancholy still hovering about him.

Bingley’s acquaintance with Fitzwilliam was not so profound as Darcy’s, but they knew enough of each other to have a good opinion, though Darcy would not call them friends.

“Of course, you may use Netherfield,” replied Bingley. “I shall be in town through the season, so it will be empty anyway.”

“Thank you, Bingley.” Fitzwilliam regarded his friend and then said: “If you will excuse me, I’m curious about why you are not using it yourself. From what Darcy has told me, it seems an excellent situation.”

“Caroline does not appreciate Meryton,” replied Bingley, though with a grimace and a shake of his head.

“Perhaps not, Bingley.” Fitzwilliam’s gaze was steady but not judgmental. “If you will pardon my saying it, your sister does not hold the lease—you do. Should your sister prefer town, she may stay with your sister and her husband.”

With a nod that indicated he did not wish to speak of it, Bingley said: “You are correct, but I am fixed in London for the moment.”

“I did not mean to pry.”

“Not at all,” replied Bingley, his good humor restored. “As you wish to recuperate in peace, I dare say the place is perfect for you. Take all the time you need.”

“Thank you, Bingley. I shall try not to tax your patience too much by overstaying my welcome.”

That evening, Darcy sat in his study, seeing nothing before him.

It had occurred to him that Fitzwilliam might learn the reason for Bingley’s retreat from Hertfordshire.

That was not a problem, he supposed, as there was nothing shameful about Bingley’s departure other than the lack of any visits to the neighbors to announce their absence.

Darcy had suggested otherwise, but Miss Bingley, eager to show her contempt, had maintained it was unnecessary, considering how little she esteemed those who lived there.

As Miss Bingley was not the subject of his ruminations, Darcy allowed thoughts of her to fade in favor of what else Fitzwilliam might find in Hertfordshire.

His cousin was a social man, comfortable in any society—if he could endure conditions in a regiment with equanimity, he would not find Meryton at all daunting, nor would he hide away at Netherfield.

He would socialize, meet the neighbors, and that meant also meeting the Bennets.

In a small part of Darcy’s mind, hidden away from the light, his reasons for departing Meryton were as much for his own benefit as for Bingley’s. Miss Elizabeth Bennet had proved too tempting a diversion from duty, and Darcy had left in part to achieve distance from her.

How he felt about his cousin meeting her, Darcy could not say, though he was not pleased with the notion that Fitzwilliam might find her agreeable—to meet a woman who had intrigued him far too much for years to come as the wife of his cousin was not at all palatable.

Then again, Darcy knew Fitzwilliam needed to pay some attention to money when he married, as he had jested for many years.

Fitzwilliam would find her an interesting woman and even grow to esteem her, but he did not suppose his cousin would lose his heart to her.

Regardless of what happened, the die was cast, and Darcy did not mean to retrieve it only to cast it yet again. Darcy did not intend to return to Hertfordshire, and he had no interest in making any overtures to Miss Elizabeth. At least, that was what Darcy told himself as he sat alone in his study.

SALVATION ARRIVED ONE morning in early December.

The previous ten days had been trying for Elizabeth’s temper, rendering her unable to tolerate her mother’s company for even a few moments, leading to walks longer than the season allowed and solitude in her bedchamber.

When she was in company, Mrs. Bennet spoke with unflagging vigor about her disappointment.

Chief among these was, of course, Elizabeth’s refusal of Mr. Collins’s proposal.

“Mark my words, Lizzy Bennet,” her mother would say, her voice rising to an uncomfortable pitch, “if you take it into your head to refuse every offer of marriage you receive, you will never marry.”