Chapter Sixteen
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
THAT EVENING, COLONEL Fitzwilliam did not come down for dinner, and so his mother sought him out.
She found him in a sitting room in the upper part of the house. She stood in the doorway. “Your father and I missed you this evening. Are you feeling some ailment?”
He raised his eyebrows at her. “Let us not pretend you have not heard the rumors.”
“I must say that your not appearing at dinner does nothing to quell them,” she said, coming into the room. “Your father said he would come and speak to you, but I convinced him to let me, for I am much better with rumors than he is, and we both know it.”
Richard didn’t say anything. He had been drinking port. He gazed at the half-drunk glass, which was sitting next to him on an end table.
His mother came into the room and sat down next to him. She selected a glass and picked up the port bottle. “I need a drink for this discussion, I think.”
“No, we should not discuss—”
“You will get married,” said his mother. “You will get married immediately, and you will never say a word to confirm or deny anything about it. If you are directly asked, you will say, ‘I shan’t dignify that with a response.’ Are we clear?”
“I don’t wish to get married,” he said.
She blinked at him. “Oh, God. It’s true.”
He drank some port. His voice lilted. “I shan’t dignify that with a response.”
She smirked. “Oh, I suppose I deserved that, did I not?”
“You don’t wish to know, Mother.”
“Likely not.” She shrugged. “But you must realize that things are different now than they were when I was young. Your generation, in some ways, you’re all such prudes . You don’t know the sorts of things your father and I did when we were young, for instance.”
He gave her an odd look. “I suppose I don’t. Please don’t tell me.”
She laughed a high, bright laugh, drinking more of her port. “I shall not, then. But I must say, it’s not as if this sort of thing is something the three of you invented, you know? You might not remember the very public Worsely trial, of course. What am I saying? Of course you don’t remember. You were a child. But Worsely just gave his wife out to men to use. He liked to watch. And it’s not as if Worsely made that up either. This is just common , my son.”
“Is it.” He drained the rest of his port. “So, why must it be hidden, then?”
“This, you see, is why the younger generation is mad ,” said his mother. “In my day, everyone understood the way things were done. Marriage is done for duty, for family, for children. It has nothing to do with love. But you see, these days, your generation is running about wanting love matches, and I must say, it’s… You can’t have a love match with two other people, Richard.”
“But what if I—”
“No,” she said. “You must get married, that is all there is to it.”
He studied his empty glass.
“I suppose it all started because you were volunteering to get her with child? Did you?”
He looked up at her.
“It’s not your child, Richard,” she said, drinking the rest of her port and setting down her glass with finality.
“I don’t think I did, actually,” he muttered.
“Oh,” she said. “Well, for Mrs. Darcy’s sake, I am sorry. Loving one’s children, that is true and real love. Whatever you find with a paramour is only ever a pale imitation.”
He looked at his mother. “You and Father don’t love each other at all?”
“Oh, certainly we do.” She patted his knee. “Certainly we do.” She got up. “I shall see you at breakfast, and there will be no more skipping out on meals. Have a pleasant evening.” She quit the room.
He gazed into her wake.
Then he got out a sheet of paper and composed the letter to Darcy and Elizabeth.
ELIZABETH SNATCHED THE letter away from her husband, furrowing her brow. “You read it wrong.”
Mr. Darcy sighed, gesturing at her to read it herself. “I’m afraid I didn’t.”
She scanned the words, shaking her head. “No, this is madness, he can’t be saying this. Why would he say this? When he was here with us, he said the exact opposite.”
“I don’t know,” said Mr. Darcy. “I am going to write to him, not through the post as this letter was sent, but with a servant, because this is too vague.”
Rumors had finally reached Pemberley, Elizabeth knew, but their housekeeper, Mrs. Reynolds, had forbade any of the servants to speak a word of it, and all was quiet there.
“You’ll go after him,” said Elizabeth.
Mr. Darcy took the letter back from her. “I don’t know, Lizzy. Should I do that? If I am there, what will that do to the rumors? Fuel them? It will look as if I am going after my lover, and if I bring him back here with me…?”
She sank her teeth into her bottom lip. “You can’t think… some kind of criminal mob coming after the two of you for sodomy?”
“I would not leave you, my darling, with neither of us,” he said with a sigh.
“Oh, Lord,” she breathed, her breath hitching.
“It likely won’t come to that,” he said. “Richard is the son of an earl. To hang the son of an earl… well, I think not, my love. But I think caution is wise at this point. We must not give them ammunition for their whispers.”
“So, what are we going to do? Just lose him? He writes that his mother is insistent that he must get married. And he is already married. To us. So, if he were to do that…” Her throat was tight.
“He doesn’t say he’s going to do it, though,” said Mr. Darcy, looking over the letter. “Just that his mother wishes it. Of course she would. Lady Matlock is formidable in the face of a scandal, of course.”
“Is that what it is?” She swallowed. “A scandal?”
“You have never faced anything like that, I suppose, my love,” he said, looking her over with sympathy. “We shall weather it here, in the country. It’s always easier in the country, you know. And if I can get him here somehow, discreetly, then he should be with us to weather it as well.”
“We can’t leave him alone in this, Will,” she said. “We simply cannot.”
“We shan’t,” he assured her. “I shall write to him immediately, send a servant to put the missive directly into his hands.”
But she was already thinking about what this might mean. If word had spread this far, then it was going to spread to her family, to her mother, to Jane. Oh, heavens, what would Jane think?
She felt queasy to think of explaining it. No one would understand. It sounded so disgusting when one didn’t see that it was about love, she thought. It sounded like filth, like she’d been rolling around in it.
In several days’ time, a response came back from the colonel, also delivered by a servant.
It was as close to a love note as they had ever gotten from him, she thought. He renewed his declaration of adoration for them both, but he said he did not think it was wise for him to be with them. However, neither could he bear the idea of entering into a marriage with anyone else, he found. The thought of it pained him. It felt like a betrayal, not just to them, but to his own heart. He said he was certain he would never waver in his feelings, but that he would not hold them to the same standard.
However, Richard was going to take a position in India with the army, and he would be gone for at least two years, perhaps more. The voyage itself would take him four or five months by ship. When he returned, the rumors would have died out, he said. If they were still interested, perhaps something could be rekindled then. But he would not even hope for such a thing, for they must all realize how mad this endeavor had been between the three of them.
Then, he said he was sorry that he could not give Elizabeth a child, that he mourned the babe sometimes, the babe that had never been, that he would have done anything to have changed that. However, perhaps it was best, for he would not wish anyone to cast aspersions on the parentage of the child. He would never wish that fate on an innocent.
He ended the letter with declarations of love and devotion. He signed it, Ever Your Husband, Richard.
Elizabeth and Mr. Darcy were of agreement immediately.
“Not India,” said Mr. Darcy. “He’s not going to India. I shan’t allow that.”
“You’ll go after him and stop him,” she said. “Actually, we should both go.”
“I can go faster on horseback,” he said. “If we take a carriage—”
“No, no, you’re right, of course,” she said. “Go bring back our husband, Mr. Darcy.”
“I shall not fail, Mrs. Darcy,” he said.
And then he left.
A week later, word came that the colonel had already left for India. Darcy had missed him. He also wrote back that the rumors were very bad, quite bad, worse than he had assumed. Richard’s fleeing the country had not helped, and his going after the man had fanned the flames of it.
There was such trouble at their house in town with the servants, in fact, that he felt obliged to stay there and attempt to sort it out. Several of the servants, including the butler, were resigning because they did not wish to be associated with the Darcy name.
She wrote back that he must do as he must, of course.
Her bleeding was late.
She did not put that in the letter.
Another week passed with no word, and then one day, a boy—he must have been no older than fifteen—rode up to Pemberley as if he’d been riding straight through for days. He was exhausted and dirty, and he told her that her husband had been in an accident.
“What do you mean an accident?” she said, feeling her heart begin to pick up speed.
“Someone threw a brick into his carriage. It hit him in the head. He is all right, and he is conscious, but he is badly shaken and the doctors think he should stay abed for perhaps a fortnight.”
“A brick?” She was horrified. “Was it because of…?” She could not meet this boy’s gaze. “There are rumors, you see.”
“Lies, awful lies, madam,” he said. “I have no idea why people would say such things. As if any man would allow such liberties with…” He cleared his throat. “Forgive me, madam. I should not have—anyway, it’s appalling.”
“Well, I shall go to him, of course. I must ready—”
“No, he begs you not to come,” said the boy. “He says he would not have you near London for anything in the world. He will not risk your safety.”
“But surely—” And then she cut off, because Mr. Darcy was not safe, and she had still not bled, and… “Well, if that is what he wishes.”
“He directs you and his sister and her child to go to visit your sister, Mrs. Bingley. He says he would feel better if you were not all alone out here. Pemberley is quite recognizably his, and his name is associated with… rumors.”
Not safe at Pemberley either?
How could it be?
She supposed she would be happier to be at Netherfield, however. It was less than a day’s journey from there to London, which would mean she was at least closer to her husband.
However, she was not ready to face Jane in the wake of all of this. Why was it so bad? She had not expected it to be so bad, she had to admit.
Maybe it was unrelated. Maybe the brick had simply been hurled by accident.
She convinced herself of this so well that it was what she told Georgiana.
Georgiana was puzzled as to why they couldn’t simply go to London, then, to see her brother.
“Well, he does not wish us to,” said Elizabeth.
“Well, he has been hit in the head,” said Georgiana. “Perhaps he is not thinking clearly.”
As it turned out, Georgiana contacted her husband, who was coming back from one of his excursions across the seas in the Americas. Georgiana went to him, and Elizabeth did go to Netherfield.
But there was no discussion with Jane.
“Appalling,” Jane only said. “That they would say such lies. You could never do such a thing, Lizzy.”
And Elizabeth didn’t know how to answer, so she only nodded. “Never,” she said faintly.
She did not understand why it was that she wasn’t bleeding. She was convinced it was simply stress and worry, because sometimes that affected her cycle. After all, she and the colonel had only been together a handful of times and all of them during her bleeding.
After the colonel had left, she’d had some interaction with Mr. Darcy, she supposed.
Could it be her husband’s child?
No, she was not with child. She had never been with child. She couldn’t be with child now.
Then, of course, the sickness started in the morning.
Jane found her, one day, hugging a chamberpot but bringing nothing up.
“You’re ill!” her sister exclaimed. “I shall send for Mr. Jones at once!”
“No,” said Elizabeth, raising her head. “Nothing is coming up. Nothing ever does. I feel as if I must cast up my accounts, but I cannot.”
“Oh,” said her sister. “Lizzy. At long last! You are with child.”
Elizabeth set down the chamberpot.
“I thought you’d be ecstatic,” said Jane softly, giving her a small smile. “The sickness is a bit to take on, I shall admit, but think of it, Lizzy! After so long!”
“It’s only, I think it’s in my head,” said Elizabeth. “It can’t have happened. It doesn’t make any sense.”
“What do you mean?”
Elizabeth shook her head. “No, never mind it.”
Jane surveyed her.
Elizabeth thought about it, and said, eventually, carefully, “The only time that I could have become… with child… was when I was having my bleeding, and so it’s impossible.”
“Oh, it is possible,” said Jane with a shrug. “Happened to me, last day of my bleeding. That’s why we have little Matilda.” She giggled.
Elizabeth furrowed her brow. “But I’ve always thought—”
“Oh, yes, I spoke to the midwife about it,” said Jane. “She says that towards the end is more likely than towards the beginning of one’s bleeding. She says that the time when one can be gotten with child is between the end of the bleeding and about a week and a half to two weeks after. After that, she says, there is no chance of it. You sometimes feel a twinge on either side, she says? That’s a sign your fertility is done for the month. Now, if you’ve already some, erm, seed in you when that happens…” Jane giggled. “Then you may be with child. Otherwise, no.”
“Timing,” murmured Elizabeth.
“What does Mr. Darcy think?”
Elizabeth shook her head, feeling overwhelmed.
“Oh, Lord, you haven’t told him! Well, go write him a letter this instant. Then we can take you to see him, perhaps, if he’s not being absolutely ridiculous about insisting there is danger. Anyone would take one look at you and realize that you would never—” Jane’s voice cut off.
Elizabeth looked back into the chamberpot.
Jane got to her feet. She let out a breath. “You would never do such a thing,” she said, but her voice was tight.
Elizabeth got to her feet. “I must write to my husband. You’re right.” Both of them, she thought.
“Will he not be pleased, Lizzy?” whispered Jane.
“No, he’ll be quite pleased,” said Elizabeth, smiling at her sister. “He loves me, Jane, you know this. I love him, too.”
Jane nodded. “Yes. Good, then.”
And that was that.
No more discussion on that score, but Elizabeth supposed it was as close to acknowledging it as she was going to get with Jane.
She sent the letter to Mr. Darcy with a servant, telling him everything in plain language, including her discussion with Jane about timing and midwives and twinges and everything else.
The letter she wrote to her other husband was vaguer.
She told him she was with child, but she did not indicate she thought it was likely it was his, for she did not wish such information to be in a letter that would likely need to change many hands. She wanted him to know, though. He would understand the truth of it if he read between the lines of her words.
He was on a ship, heading towards India, but the ports that the voyage would stop over on were known, so she could send the letter to the next place he would dock. However, she had no notion if he would read the letter right off, or if he would take it with him and not find out this information until he was already back at sea.
At any rate, she supposed he could not come back. He was under the authority of the British Army, and he would be defying his orders.
She dithered over the letter, wondering if it was kinder not to tell him. Would knowing what he was missing out on cause him anything other than heartache? If only Mr. Darcy were here, if only she could ask his opinion on the matter. If only the three of them were not so separated.
Surely, that was not the way it was meant to be.
Surely, they should have been together.