Darcy and Fitzwilliam: A Tale of a Gentleman and an Officer

It appears our darling Darcy misplaced your trinket several months ago when he stayed with me at Netherfield for our private visit, a visit we thoroughly enjoyed alone at my home. It must have fallen from his coat when he removed it, the locket being discovered upstairs in my bedroom. I had intended to return this during my visit with you at Lady Catherine de Bourgh’s home, but I was mysteriously misrepresented to her and had to leave before I could accomplish my mission.

I hope this hasn’t caused you any alarm. I had thought to discard it, but then realized it may have sentimental attachments for you. It obviously has no other value.

Please give Darcy my love and relate to him, for me, how I dearly I look forward to his next visit.

Regards,

Caroline Bingley

Lizzy sat very still, her mind so paralyzed that it was unable to wrap itself around this tidbit of news. Darcy was at her house? No. Fitzwilliam Darcy? Her Fitzwilliam Darcy? When could he have visited? She and Darcy had been in each other’s pockets for months now. The only time he was away from her was when he assisted her father in returning home, and when he went away to assist Charles at Netherfield…

Elizabeth was still clutching one bit of the shredded letter when Darcy entered her dressing room, arrogantly proclaiming that since there remained no footmen at home to carry her downstairs, he would, like his mud hut–dwelling forbearers, provide primitivelike sustenance for his woman—peach tarts, plover’s eggs with mint jelly, fresh fruit, cheese, and toast tips. All that she needed to tell him was how.

He stopped when he saw her furious stare. “Lizzy, whatever is wrong? You look like you’ve fought a ghost!”

It was a terrible argument. Tensions that had been repressed but building were exploding everywhere with horrible accusations and threats, most of which, thankfully, were shrieked in words that were unintelligible. When he finally stormed out, she sat at her dressing table, staring at a gaping hole where there had once been a door handle and lock. Now, like her marriage, the lock and handle lay in shattered pieces upon the floor. She was numb. She clutched her poor little locket to her heart and felt physically ill. She never thought for a moment that he would become so angry that he would actually kick in her door.

Oh my God Oh my God Oh my God! Could he really be having an affair with Caroline? No, this I cannot believe. I will not believe—he is the best of men. I’ll kill him. Oh dear Jesu, maybe he has the right of it, though, the way I treat him, and I look like a sea cow anyway. Who can blame him for finding comfort with another? I wish the baby would come, that it was all finally over. Caressing her stomach, she began to sob, not really noticing that the persistent back pain and occasional kicking, her daily companions for so many months, had finally ceased.

***

It was a half hour after Darcy’s dramatic exit that those horrible pains returned with a vengeance, the pain her doctor had been dismissing out of hand for the past week, worse now by far. There was also a queer pressure on her bottom, distracting her from her wallowing in abject misery. Moaning, she wiped away tears with a knuckle and quickly sat down, loudly blowing her nose with her delicate Belgian lace handkerchief. It never occurred to her to call for the doctor or even to have mentioned those earlier discomforts to her husband. Of course, now there is no husband to tell. It was the sort of whiney type of reflection that caused her to abruptly renew her wails.