Chapter Seventeen
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
COLONEL FITZWILLIAM WAS drunk, but he had been drinking overmuch lately, so he was always either drunk or recovering, it seemed.
He wavered on his feet on the dock where he stood, sea air blowing into his face, the air making his hands sticky as he thrust them into his hair, which also felt sticky. Why was it that the salt air did that, anyway?
He sat down hard on his trunk, letting out a noise.
In the distance, he could see Lieutenant Colonel Marksby striding off back toward the ship, not giving Richard so much as a backward look.
He was being given special treatment. Such was the privilege of being the son of an earl, he supposed. He had spent the voyage drunk, which had meant that he had been late for duty several times, that he had neglected to rise when he was meant to do so, and all of this would have been bad enough if it weren’t for the fact that he’d gotten quite soused and called his superior officer a number of very rude things. For his continued drunken behavior, he likely should have been court-martialed, locked away in the brig of the ship, punished fully.
But he and Marksby had spoken several days earlier. The colonel had been drunk at the time, so the conversation was a bit hazy for him. Marksby said that he would simply leave him at the next port and send word back that the colonel was too ill for duty. As it was, Marksby said, it was practically the truth since Richard had been a drunken lout for the whole of the journey thus far.
Now, Richard was left here with his belongings and he must make his own way back home.
Of course, Richard wasn’t going home. No reason to go there. He could not face his mother and father at this point. He was a disgrace, an embarrassment, and this turn of events was only adding insult to injury.
He was in Spain. He counted himself lucky to have been tossed off the ship somewhere on the continent instead of somewhere in Africa, he supposed. He even knew a bit of Spanish. He wasn’t fluent. He was much better with French.
At this exact moment, of course, he was too drunk to converse with anyone at all.
He sat on his trunk as the world spun slightly and his stomach churned.
What would Darcy have done if he’d been in Richard’s place? Not this, of course. Darcy was far too proper and duty-bound to have let himself fall apart in this manner. Darcy would have given him some speech about responsibility and rising to challenges and likely told him that because Richard was the second son, he had no idea what it meant to have people counting on him.
He loved that man, but he could be insufferable.
The thought, however, brought a smile to his lips.
Ah, how he missed Darcy. And Elizabeth.
Well, he was likely to be dishonorably discharged from the army at this rate. What would he do with himself then?
AFTER MR. DARCY got the letter from Elizabeth, delivered directly to his sickbed by a servant from Netherfield, he got out of bed.
The servant asked if he wished to reply, saying he’d been told to stay and wait for the response and that he would take it himself.
Darcy said, “No need. I am preparing to go to Netherfield myself. You may come in my carriage with me, if you like.”
There was a great deal of uproar amongst the servants, for he was supposed to remain abed, and the doctor had insisted upon it.
But Darcy would hear none of it. He insisted his trunk be packed and his carriage readied. After all, it was only the journey of a few hours. After the injury, there had been concern about swelling and the like. The surgeon had spoken of damage done to the brain with a head injury. However, the last time the surgeon had examined him, he had said that Darcy was likely out of the window of time when serious complications would occur.
The doctor, of course, had advised caution, saying that it would be wise to continue to rest.
But Darcy did not wish to remain in London any longer. It would be best to be with his wife, especially now that he knew that she was with child. He would not keep himself apart from her any longer.
He would not be moved to get back into bed, so eventually, it came to pass as he had requested, and he made the journey to Hertfordshire, arriving at Netherfield unannounced, sometime after dinner.
No one was there to greet him, and the servants who met him at the door seemed quite surprised that he was there. He realized, with chagrin, it would have been polite to send word ahead so that they could have made ready for him. But he was shown into the sitting room where Mr. Bingley, his wife, and Mrs. Darcy all got to their feet at the sight of him.
Elizabeth sprang for him immediately, embracing him, eyes wet as her fingers fluttered over the bandage on his forehead.
All he wanted to do was kiss her. Unfortunately, such things were not done in mixed company. Her embracing him was really quite forward.
There was a bluster of conversation, and he did his best to explain himself, but before he got very far with it, everyone began to insist that he must lie down immediately and to chide him for making the journey at all.
He tried to protest that he was all right, really, and that he was feeling much better and that no one should fuss over him.
But his wife would hear none of it and escorted him directly to her bedchamber, where she tucked him into her bed. There, they had nearly a quarter hour to speak to each other about what had occurred since they had seen each other last, and, yes, he was able to kiss her. She told him about the letter she had written to Richard to tell him the news and inquired if she should even do such a thing, if it would be better for him not to know.
He was pondering his response to this when they were interrupted by servants, who were in the business of preparing chambers for him.
But Elizabeth said he would not be moved, and she would keep him right here, in her chamber, and then Jane appeared and insisted that Elizabeth must simply be moved to the chamber that was being prepared for him, and in the bustle of all of it, there was no more time for talk.
He was left to sleep. Despite himself, he did. He must have been more weary from the travel and the worry and the news—and perhaps the injury he’d sustained—than he had quite known.
He woke later, just barely to the heft of Elizabeth in the bed with him. He wound his arms around her and she clung to him, and he felt much better, simply having her there. They slept entwined until—in the scant light of morning—she excused herself, claiming she felt ill.
She left the room and he roused himself to look for her.
But instead of finding her, he found Mr. Bingley.
It was barely dawn, and Bingley was not yet dressed, though he had a warm cup of chocolate. It was sitting out, along with a steaming chocolate pot, on a table in one of the upper sitting rooms. Bingley was gazing out a window, yawning.
“Oh,” said Mr. Darcy, “my apologies. I was seeking Mrs. Darcy.”
“My wife is with her,” Bingley said. “Well, she may be in the kitchens, overseeing a mint tea preparation that has been soothing for her when she is increasing.”
“Ah,” said Darcy. He felt embarrassed and awkward.
He and Bingley had been quite close once, but there had always been an element of inequity to their relationship, he supposed. Bingley was younger than he was and he was not so well connected. Back then, Bingley had looked up to him. Then they had married sisters and been more like equals. However, time and distance had meant they no longer spent nearly as much time in each other’s company. Now, what with the scandal that Darcy had brought down on the heads of himself and everyone associated with him, he felt low. Very low indeed. Much lower than Bingley, and it was an odd sensation, he had to admit.
Contrary to popular opinion, Darcy did not think of himself as better than anyone else. Rather, he felt he was much, much worse. But he often clung to emblems of status to help him feel as if it raised him just an inkling, to perhaps be on equal footing with others.
Now, he had little to cling to.
“I feel I should offer my apologies,” said Mr. Darcy.
Bingley raised his eyebrows at him, looking bemused. “Apologies from you, Fitzwilliam? How hard were you hit on the head?”
Darcy bowed his head and shame filled him. “I should not have come here unannounced, of course. I likely ought not be here at all, forcing you to house me when my name has been sullied as it has.”
“We are connected by marriage. Practically brothers, really. You are always welcome in my home.”
Darcy’s shoulders sagged. This meant more to him than he could quite express.
“Come have a cup of chocolate.” Bingley nodded at a chair next to his.
Darcy shuffled over and seated himself.
“I shall play hostess and pour?” Bingley gave him a little smile.
“Thank you, Charles.” He accepted the cup of chocolate.
Then, it was silent for a bit, but the silence seemed safe, welcoming, even comforting. Darcy took a deep drink of the hot and thick liquid and gazed out the window into the dawn. He let out an audible breath.
“What are you going to do?” said Bingley.
Darcy glanced at him and then away. “You mean… about everything? ”
Bingley chuckled. “In such situations, I think what is generally done is to disappear to the country for some time, wait for things to blow over, and then to hope one may be invited back into people’s homes eventually.”
“Quite,” said Darcy.
“But there are elements to this scandalous tale that are quite, well, scandalous,” said Bingley. “And with Mrs. Darcy with child now, I think that only deepens all of it. If she ran off with him, it might be one thing. You could weather it more easily, perhaps. You’d stay and they would go off somewhere. Maybe within a few years, you could collect her, bring her home. I have heard tell of such situations. Women do run off with other men sometimes.”
“ No. ” Darcy was alarmed.
“I’m only saying, the element of this that people find the most objectionable is that it involved you and him. Is that part true?”
The feeling of welcome and safety had been yanked out from under him abruptly. He set down the cup of chocolate, preparing some way to take his leave.
Bingley put a hand on his arm. “Fitzwilliam. Stay.” He removed the hand, then. He blushed.
Darcy groaned.
“Did you ever wish… with me?”
“ No, ” said Darcy, groaning again.
Bingley smirked. “I suppose I should find that relieving, but I think I’m simply a bit miffed. I would say that most people would say my countenance is a bit more pleasing than his. Whatever is wrong with me?”
Darcy gaped at him, aghast.
Bingley was chuckling. “Oh, my apologies. You have never borne teasing well. I shall endeavor to keep those sorts of comments in.” He drank more chocolate, smiling as he looked out the window. “All right, well, here it is. I think you should go abroad.”
“Abroad?” Darcy sat up straight, blinking, thinking that through.
“He’s in India, or he will be. Maybe there.” Bingley shrugged. “However, that seems a punishing journey for a woman growing heavy with child, so perhaps not so far. We are not at war with France anymore, you know. People in France do all manner of things.”
“Not anymore, Charles! They cut off all their heads.”
Bingley considered. “Yes, perhaps.”
Darcy looked into his own cup of chocolate, unsure if he could say this bit aloud, and then deciding to chance it. “He would wish to know. He would wish to be with her. If he knew she was increasing, I think he might do everything in his power to get out of his duty and leave it all behind. We had… plans.”
“It is quite definitely his, then.”
“I think so.”
“You have always been different with him,” said Bingley with a little shrug. “The way you spoke of him, the way you looked at him. It makes a certain kind of sense to me, I suppose. So, these plans, they involved all three of you?”
Darcy nodded. He licked his lips. “The continent,” he mused.
“No one knows you there,” said Bingley. “And you could set it up however you liked, I suppose. If you come into a situation and hire servants and let them know this is what to expect, well, it’s different than altering things. Change frightens people, but the status quo, whatever it may be, is always comforting.”
Darcy nodded slowly.
“You have assets you could liquidate if you needed to fund such a thing,” said Charles. “And we would all relish the chance to visit you, of course. Perhaps not in India, but if it were somewhere in the Mediterranean?” He shrugged again.
“I don’t know how to contact him. We can write a letter, but there is every chance he would not receive it. The ship must be nearly to Africa by now, anyway. Elizabeth thinks we can send something to the next port where they will stop, and perhaps the colonel would read it there and perhaps… but what can he do? He cannot abandon his post or defect from the armed forces of Britain. And if it is only Elizabeth and I, should I uproot us, take her and the child away from everyone?”
“Well, if you stay, you may count upon Jane and myself to visit you regardless. But I’m sure that you are aware that Mrs. Bennet has refused to call upon us since we are hosting Elizabeth here. I think it’s unlikely the child would have any contact with grandparents for some time.”
“Damnation,” muttered Darcy. “Truly?”
“Mrs. Bennet is…” Bingley trailed off, considering, seemingly discarding this and then that. Finally, he settled on, “My mother-in-law.”
Darcy snorted. “Aye, and mine as well.”
“Well, she used to like you, as much as that woman likes anyone, that is.”
“But not anymore,” muttered Mr. Darcy. “And Mr. Bennet has only ever tolerated me. He never thought me good enough for his Lizzy. He must be out of his mind. I can’t believe he’d stay away from Elizabeth, however?”
“I think Mr. Bennet chooses the path of least resistance when it comes to Mrs. Bennet,” said Bingley.
They both laughed.
But Darcy didn’t laugh long. It was sobering. This was what he’d done, after all, destroyed his wife’s connection to her parents, made their position in good society uncertain, and gotten her seeded with a child that everyone knew was not legitimate. Had it been worth it?
The hell of it was, he would likely do it again.
He truly was a wretched man, was he not?