Chapter Eighteen The Arrival at Thornwood
Colonel Richard Fitzwilliam—former colonel, he reminded himself with a wry twist of his mouth—stepped down from the Matlock carriage as the sun dipped low over the Kentish horizon.
The journey had been interminable, the roads a slog of mud and ruts that had tested even the sturdy family coach.
He stretched his legs, feeling the ache of hours confined in a swaying box, and looked around at his new domain.
Thornwood. Darcy had described it modestly—a "small estate" in need of management, nothing grand.
Richard had pictured a cottage, perhaps a modest manor house with a few acres of garden and a pond for fishing.
What greeted him instead was a charming Georgian edifice of warm red brick, flanked by well-tended gardens and a sweep of gravel drive that spoke of quiet prosperity.
It was no Pemberley—Darcy's sense of scale was muddled by the grandeur of his own seat—but it was an actual estate house, modest but substantial, with mullioned windows and chimneys puffing faint smoke.
Fields stretched beyond, dotted with sheep, and a copse of oaks whispered in the evening breeze.
It felt possible. A place where a man could rebuild without the weight of expectations and threats to their life.
"Not bad, cousin," he murmured to the absent Darcy. "Not bad at all."
The front door opened with a creak, and three figures emerged: an elderly butler with a stoop that spoke of years of service, a plump housekeeper in starched apron and cap, and a weathered steward leaning on a cane, his face lined like old leather.
"Colonel Fitzwilliam?" the butler inquired. His voice was polished despite the rural setting. "I am Wilkins, sir. Welcome to Thornwood."
Richard nodded, shaking hands all around. "Thank you, Wilkins. And you must be Mrs Barlow?" He turned to the housekeeper, who curtsied with a warm smile.
"Aye, sir. We've been expecting you. The fires are lit, and dinner's nearly ready—simple fare, but hearty."
"And Mr Hodges." Richard clasped the steward's gnarled hand.
The old man nodded. "Pleasure, sir. The estate's in fair shape, but she'll need a firm hand. Crops are coming in well this year—wheat and barley mostly—and the tenants are reliable, barring old Widow Jenkins, who argues over every farthing."
Richard chuckled. "We shall manage. Perhaps tomorrow you could give me a tour of the grounds? First light, if it suits."
Hodges brightened. "Aye, sir. I'll have the horses saddled."
"Black Thunder, my horse, will arrive later in the week. Keep an eye for him. He is touchy."
Hodges laughed. "Of course, sir. I have a way with horses."
The staff bustled him inside. Wilkins took his greatcoat and Mrs Barlow chattered about the linens being fresh-aired. The house was cosy—oak-panelled halls, a drawing room with faded but comfortable furnishings, and a dining room that smelled of roast beef.
Richard dined alone at a table set for one.
The meal was simple: roast, boiled potatoes, and a salad of greens from the kitchen garden.
The silence was profound, broken only by the tick of a grandfather clock and the occasional pop from the fire.
No regimental mess-hall banter, no family clamour.
Just him, contemplating the turn of his life over a glass of mediocre brandy—thin and sharp, nothing like the Matlock cellars.
He had resigned his commission that morning.
He signed the papers with a flourish that masked the pang in his chest. Soldiering had been his identity, his escape from second-son obscurity.
Now? Thornwood. His debts were settled by his father (a bribe, he had called it).
He took this chance to prove himself without a woman's dowry hanging over him like a sword.
It was freedom, of a sort. But as he sipped the brandy, his thoughts drifted inevitably to her. Caroline.
He raised his glass in a silent toast. "To new horizons," he muttered. "And to hell with the West Indies."
Exhaustion claimed him early. He retired to the master bedroom—a spacious chamber with a four-poster bed and windows overlooking the gardens.
The sheets were crisp, the fire banked low.
Two glasses of brandy warmed his veins, and he fell asleep to the hoot of an owl outside.
Dreams came swiftly: a bowl of lemons, tart and bright.
Fierce green eyes sparking with indignation.
A cascade of red-fire hair like autumn leaves.
And, absurdly, a frog croaking defiantly from a pond, as if mocking his earlier vow.
He slept deeply—until the banging started.
It was the dead of night. The pounding echoed from below, insistent and frantic, accompanied by muffled shouts and the clatter of boots on gravel.
Richard bolted upright. His heart raced like he had heard a French bugle.
Highwaymen? A fire? Poachers on the grounds?
His mind ran through possibilities, each more dire than the last.
He snatched his breeches from the chair, yanking them on over his nightshirt—no time for a waistcoat, cravat, or boots—and grabbed a heavy poker from the hearth as a makeshift weapon. He dashed downstairs barefoot.
The commotion grew louder in the hall: voices arguing in heated whispers, a woman's sharp command cutting through the din like a sabre through silk.
Wilkins's sleepy murmur rose in confusion, Mrs Barlow's gasp of alarm pierced the air, and Hodges's gruff rumble demanded to know what in blazes was going on.
Richard's pulse thundered in his ears as he descended the last flight, the poker raised high, his military instincts kicking in—assess, engage, overpower.
He burst into the entrance hall, the door flying open with a bang against the wall.
He was ready for battle. His bare chest heaved under the half-open nightshirt, and he planted his feet wide on the chilly stone floor.
What he found stopped him cold. The poker drooped in his hand as disbelief washed over him like a bucket of Thames water.
A pack of intruders—familiar intruders—stood clustered in the flickering light of a single lantern held aloft by Wilkins, who looked as bewildered as if the Prince Regent himself had come calling at midnight.
His brother Robert was mud-spattered from head to toe. His coat was caked in road grime and his boots were leaving filthy prints on the hall rug. He was grinning like a madman who had just won a wager on a three-legged horse.
His cousin Darcy was looking equal parts exasperated and amused. His usually impeccable cravat had given up on respectability and his hair was tousled from what must have been a long journey. He stood with his arms crossed as if debating whether to intervene or retreat.
Colonel Lindon was in uniform. A streak of mud run across his cheek, and he was clapping Robert on the back with the camaraderie of old campaigners.
Charles Bingley was flustered and wide-eyed. His face was redder than a beetroot, and he was wringing his hands like a schoolboy caught in mischief.
And in the centre of this chaotic tableau, Caroline. Her pelisse was wrinkled and dusted with dirt, her hair tumbling from its pins in wild auburn waves. Her face was flushed with exertion and determination, and her eyes were blazing like twin flames in the lantern light.
Richard blinked once, twice, the poker now hanging limp at his side, forgotten in the absurdity of the scene. His mind reeled—what fresh madness was this? A hallucination from the brandy? A dream turned nightmare?
"What in the devil—" he started. His voice came rough with sleep and shock. His feet shifted on the cold floor as he tried to process the impossible gathering before him.
Bingley's gaze landed on Richard's bare chest—his nightshirt open from hasty dressing, revealing the scars of old campaigns and the dishevelled state of a man rudely awakened.
He yelped like a startled pup caught in a fox's den.
He lunged forward with comical urgency, clapping both hands over Caroline's eyes as if shielding her from some scandalous tableau in a Covent Garden farce.
"Sister! Avert your gaze! The man is indecent! Think of your sensibilities!"
Caroline swatted at him furiously. Her muffled voice rose in indignant fury, and her gloved hands pried at his fingers like a cat batting at a ball of yarn.
"Remove your hands, you imbecile! You are going to give me wrinkles pressing like that!
And I have seen worse at the seaside—let go, Charles, before I box your ears! "
She twisted free with a triumphant shove, sending Bingley stumbling back into Lindon, who caught him with a chuckle.
She straightened her pelisse with a huff, brushing off invisible mud, and marched straight to Richard.
She lifted her chin at that angle he knew so well—the one that signalled a storm brewing.
He stood speechless, with his mouth agape, and the poker forgotten in his grip. His bare toes curled against the flagstones as the chill seeped in.
She raised a gloved finger, pointing it like a sabre aimed at his heart.
"Not. A. Word. I have been dragged through hell—mud up to my ankles, rain soaking my hems, coaching inns that smelled of stale ale and despair, toll gates that charged us twice because of some officious keeper with a grudge against viscounts, and an incident involving a cart of turnips that overturned in the road and a herd of sheep that blocked our path for half an hour while the shepherd argued with our driver over right of way. And I love you."
The hall fell silent.
Richard stared. His brain scrambled to catch up—love?
Everyone stared: Robert with open-mouthed delight, Mr Darcy with a furrowed brow, Lindon with raised eyebrows, Bingley with horrified fascination.
Mrs Barlow, hovering in her night-robe with a candle, crossed herself vigorously—Catholic habits dying hard, and her lips moved in a silent prayer for propriety.
Wilkins, ever the dutiful butler despite the hour, shuffled forward quietly to light more candles on the hall table.
The flames sprang to life one by one, making the absurdity feel almost theatrical.
Richard's mind finally caught up. Love. She loved him.
A grin split his face, wild and unrestrained, starting slow and building to something manic, like a bedlamite who had just been handed the keys to the asylum.
He dropped the poker with a resounding clatter that echoed off the oak panels, grabbed her by the waist with both hands—strong, scarred hands that lifted her effortlessly off the ground—and hauled her up against him.
She let out a startled gasp, her hands flying to his shoulders for balance, but her arms wrapped around his neck as he kissed her thoroughly—deep, desperate, tasting of brandy and relief.
His bare chest pressed against her pelisse as he poured every unspoken word into the kiss.
Mr Darcy averted his eyes immediately, blushing to the roots of his hair. He clasped his hands behind his back as if to steady himself against the impropriety.
Robert cheered with unbridled enthusiasm, pumping a fist in the air like a victor at a prize fight. "Go, brother! About time! I knew you had it in you!"
Lindon applauded slowly. A smirk played on his lips as he leaned against the wall. "Well played, Fitzwilliam. Though your attire seems light—next time, perhaps a robe for midnight invasions?"
Bingley looked uneasy. His hands twitched at his sides as if debating whether to intervene.
His face was a mask of brotherly outrage warring with reluctant acceptance.
A duel? Over his sister's honour? The thought crossed his mind in passing—call out Richard, demand satisfaction—but then he glanced at Caroline's flushed, happy face, and her sparkling eyes as she clung to the man.
He thought better of it, and settled for an awkward shuffle and a muttered, "Well, I suppose… if she is happy…"
Finally, Richard set her down gently, though he kept his arms around her waist, unwilling to let go just yet, still grinning. "And you will marry me?" he asked, his voice rough with emotion. His eyes searched hers as if fearing it was all another dream.
"Of course I will," she said, straightening her pelisse with mock severity, though her smile betrayed her joy.
"This house needs someone with taste to decorate it.
The wallpaper in the hall is hideous—no offence, Mr Darcy.
Those faded florals? They look like they have been weeping since the last century. "
Mr Darcy cleared his throat, still not quite meeting anyone's eyes. His blush finally faded to a dignified pink. "None taken. Though I must say, it is… serviceable. Functional, at least."
The group dissolved into laughter, the tension breaking, and the hall filled with relieved chatter and backslaps.
Wilkins discreetly fetched brandy from the sideboard, pouring measures for the weary travellers with a butler's unflappable calm.
Mrs Barlow bustled off to prepare rooms for the 'unexpected guests', muttering about fresh linens and hot water as she vanished up the stairs.
Hodges, who had appeared in his nightcap looking ready to defend the house with his cane, chuckled and retreated to his quarters, shaking his head at the folly of the gentry.
Richard pulled Caroline close again, murmuring into her hair amid the chaos. "You love me?"
She smiled up at him, and her fingers traced the open edge of his nightshirt. "I love you so much. Now, about that wallpaper—and the rest of our lives…"