Chapter VIII
Fitzwilliam put on a long, thick greatcoat and set out, with his walking stick, from the back doors of Rosings. He could now walk, albeit uncertainly, without the stick, but on the uneven terrain of the gardens and the woods beyond, he thought he had better be sensible. In this, at least.
Winter had arrived in earnest – mid-December had brought cold rains and bitter winds, but none of this had deterred Colonel Fitzwilliam from venturing out on his daily walks through the grounds.
Lady Catherine and Anne found it puzzling, but as they saw it, a wounded soldier, a little lost without his purpose, must be allowed some quirks.
He never invited anyone to join him, and luckily nobody in the household had any inclination to.
He made his way past the rose gardens, through the orchards and across the sweeping expanse of lawn – then, just as he was about to turn back despondently, disappointed not to have found his quarry, he decided he would push on just a little farther.
He did not usually venture into the thick woodland that sat on the farthermost patch of Rosings land.
This was due to his last vestiges of self-preservation; the steeply rising peaks and sudden drops in the wood, all of it darkened by rhododendron bushes ten feet tall, meant it was a hazard, even to someone who was being as stubborn as he.
But today he did go in, making his way carefully over fallen pinecones, twisting roots hidden by fallen leaves; he was glad of his stick. A few minutes in, he saw a glimpse of something through the trees – or someone. A flash of blue.
‘Hallo there?’ he shouted.
There was a sudden stillness; then he heard twigs snapping underfoot and saw Charlotte emerging through the trees, coming towards him. She walked quickly and with purpose. Her face was a little ruddy from the cold, and her hair was messy, blown about by the wind. She looked wonderful to him.
He spoke first. ‘I have been hoping to see you.’
She did not reply immediately. They had not met since leaving Pemberley, two weeks earlier, and formality had crept back during that time apart.
‘I, too,’ she said simply.
‘I have taken walks with, frankly, suspicious frequency, in the hope that I might happen upon you,’ he said, with a nervous laugh. ‘The effort has been in vain, until today.’
‘I am glad you found me.’
They stood a few yards apart.
He looked around the dense wood, squinting. ‘I am surprised I did. This has all the hallmarks of a good hiding place.’
She grinned. ‘True.’ She mimicked his movement – looking all around. ‘I find a peculiar charm in this place.’ She turned to one side and beckoned. ‘Shall we walk? Can you?’
He nodded and offered her his arm, which she took gladly, as much for his support as her own. ‘You have walked here before then?’ he asked.
‘I have. Many times. I like the secrecy of it. It feels unexplored. And I know I won’t be disturbed.’
‘Until today.’
‘Today, I wished to be. I allowed myself to be found,’ she said impishly.
As they picked their way through the trees, they spoke of this and of that: their respective journeys from Pemberley, the health of their households, the bitterness of the weather.
Fitzwilliam, in truth, would have picked up where they left off and kissed Charlotte where she stood; but he sensed that she needed space – some small retreat before anything more could be ventured.
‘May I ask you something?’ said Charlotte.
‘Of course.’
‘You can now walk and will soon, perhaps in a month or two, be able to walk well enough to rejoin your regiment?’
He made a sound of agreement.
‘But – must you go?’
Colonel Fitzwilliam had asked himself this question a thousand times. ‘Eventually, I must.’
‘Have you not done enough?’ said Charlotte heatedly. ‘Have you not lost enough?’
Fitzwilliam sighed. ‘To put it simply, no. I have not lost enough – not officially. I am still relatively young, and I will be well enough to fight – and so I shall have to fight. The army is in need of experienced men – I am one, and better trained than most. In that sense, it is right that I should go.’
‘And in another sense?’
‘In another sense, I would give anything not to go.’
Charlotte looked sideways at him and patted his arm. ‘You’d give your right arm?’
He gave a small laugh. ‘My leg, at the least.’
She felt a little regret for having made a joke when he was trying to be earnest. She stopped walking, turning so she could meet his eye. ‘Are you afraid?’
The colonel drew in a breath, and he glanced around the wood – up at the grey sky, the dark canopy of trees – and then down to her.
His gaze roamed over her hair, her face, the curve of her neck, yet it faltered before meeting her eyes.
Instead, he turned back to the path, his movement gently urging them on.
‘No,’ he replied at last, with a tight, unreadable smile.
After a few minutes more, Charlotte suggested they sit down on a tree-stump to give the colonel’s leg some respite, and she pulled some biscuits from her pocket, wrapped in a handkerchief.
This greatly amused Fitzwilliam. ‘You smuggled these well. Did you bake them?’
She shook her head, grinning. ‘Since my cook makes such superior ones, I see no reason to bake ever again.’
He returned her grin and took a bite. ‘I can see what you mean,’ he said, through a mouthful. He was lost in thought for a moment as he continued to chew.
‘You look far away,’ observed Charlotte.
He seemed a little shy, answering, ‘I was reminded of something. Someone.’
‘Who?’
‘I once told you that I lost someone – someone in particular – at Albuera. Parker was his name. We used to share food like this on campaign – he always squirrelled something away for later and would share it with me when we stopped for a break.’ He took another bite.
‘Tell me about him,’ Charlotte pressed softly.
He began, a little self-consciously at first, ‘Well… I had known him since we were ensigns at sixteen. He was a clown.’ Fitzwilliam chuckled.
‘He liked practical jokes – which in our barracks could be pretty dangerous. He did voices, too, with rather alarming accuracy. He could even imitate our colonel, which landed him in a chokehold on more than one occasion. He wasn’t – or I should say, we weren’t of the same station or upbringing.
His family was of more modest means, so there were fewer expectations on him, and I found myself, at times, envying the freedom of that – which he found irritating, understandably.
He called me ‘The Prince’. The unfairness of it was that I rose through the ranks quickly – my father was generous while he lived – and soon, we were in separate regiments and saw each other rarely.
Parker remained two ranks behind me, for no reason but the system itself.
He performed the same drills as I, took the same risks, gave up the same freedoms. But by the age of twenty, I was his superior. ’
‘And yet you were still friends?’
‘Oh yes. He never allowed the injustice of it to get in the way of our friendship, nor our separation; he would write to me. He was diligent about it. I was less so, rather lax in my replies. He would chide me for it. “Not even the French can stop you writing a letter,” he would say. But when the war began in Spain, we found ourselves thrown together. I was able to offer him a battlefield commission in my regiment, and he took it. He had a sweetheart – they were betrothed, in fact. He was very taken with her, quite changed. I saw a more serious side to him.’
Charlotte pulled her coat around her, and he caught her shivering.
‘Forgive me. I have never spoken of him, and so I have not learnt to be brief. I should not have entered into this when we are both sitting in the cold. You must be freezing.’ He shook his head, feeling foolish.
‘I invited you to do so, and I ask you to continue.’
He did not immediately but stood to remove his coat and wrap it around her. She accepted it, pulling it tight. It swamped her frame, but she was glad of it. She looked at him expectantly. ‘What happened?’
He took his place next to her again. ‘Well, there is little left to tell.’ He paused, thoughtful.
‘A cannonball took him down. Decisive.’ Fitzwilliam smiled grimly, but Charlotte saw the pain behind it.
‘I knew he wouldn’t survive it. I found him, after the battle, which in itself was a miracle, and he hadn’t long left, and he knew it.
He couldn’t say much, only, “Not now” – which I didn’t understand at the time – and then, at the very end, “Sarah”. I think I understand him now.’
He took a deep breath before continuing, ‘I told you I wasn’t afraid of going back, because that used to be true.
But that was a falsehood. I am now afraid.
I fear the loss of you – the hours, days we might have had.
I have not been accustomed to any particular connection in this world.
I am, I think, generally well liked and at ease with most – but there has been no one I want to live for.
Until you. And now, I find I am not ready to go. Not now.’
He looked straight ahead, afraid of her reaction. She didn’t know how to express the emotions that rose within her at this speech – or, indeed, if she should say anything. Instead, she brought her hand to rest on his, where it gripped the edge of the log.
Eventually, when Charlotte remarked that she would soon be missed at home, they roused themselves to leave the wood; at the prospect of returning, there came a tension between them again.
It was not easy, as it had been at Pemberley.
Their first touch there had been like a spring uncoiling or water bursting forth from a valve – urgent, unstoppable, no question of when or how or whether it should cease.
But now, that initial spark released, they were realising this was something deeper that neither knew how to navigate yet – or when or whether they should.
Fitzwilliam raised her gloved hand and kissed it tenderly. ‘I shall return here tomorrow and every day if I can.’
‘I will try, also,’ Charlotte said simply. She felt tears spring to her eyes. ‘But what will we…’ She faltered. ‘What can come of this?’
He put his hand on one side of her face, feeling the cold of it, and held it there, stroking her cheek.
‘I wish I had the answer. All I know is this: I want to know every part of you. I want to be as close to you as I am able. I want you. But that is all nothing if you do not share the same feelings.’
‘I do share them.’ She shook her head in frustration. Her practical mind could not simply give in to the moment, even a moment such as this. ‘But that is not enough. What of my marriage? What of God? What of our future?’
They both paused, considering that unholy trinity of obstacles, which were almost too great to contemplate.
‘I know not,’ he said. ‘I have no answer. If you wish to stop this now, I understand why. And I will honour whatever you choose – I swear it.’
In the end, she answered her own question. ‘I do not want to stop seeing you. I cannot. If God made me capable of love, then it must be his will that I find it. Even if I left it later than most.’
Colonel Fitzwilliam looked into her eyes searchingly, his brow furrowed with curiosity. ‘Love?’ he asked.
She nodded.
His features relaxed then into an expression of warm, easy delight – as if the summer sun had shone on his face.
Charlotte reached up to kiss him – which he returned with energy.
After a few moments, he stopped to pull her gently to him. She nestled her head under his chin, and he whispered, ‘Love,’ into her ear, like a secret shared between them.