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

Lady Catherine’s daughter, Anne, was in her bedroom suite, fearful that somehow a remnant of the illness that had felled Mrs. Bennet would return doggedly attached to her mother or cousin. She breathed into a boiling pot of clove-and-basil ointment, clutching a towel around her head, allowing only her paid companion to accompany her.

So it was that Lady Catherine sat alone that evening, her memories agitated, her ire poking the embers of her thoughts into flames as if bringing a dimming hearth fire to life on a winter morning.

It is insupportable…that he should look so well, never missed me at all, the ingrate! Where is the loyalty among the young these days? He’s even gained a little weight! Dread flooded her confused brain . Or, perhaps that is water retention. Oh no, the poor dear is retaining water. Oh, dear God, he probably has developed serious heart ailments of which he is not even aware!

Fitzwilliam burst into the room. “Do we grow peas?!”

She was startled, her thoughts still agitated. Already mourning the passing of her beloved Darcy, she stared at him several moments before she could respond. “What… yes, I believe we have lentils, peas, and barley on some farms to the north.” She gulped back the sense of foreboding that always arose when Fitzwilliam attempted anything agricultural. “Why do you ask?”

“Nothing… nothing…” He began to close the door then stopped, staring intently back at her, nearly obscured within the deep shadows of the doorframe. “By the by, have you ever heard of gray mold?” She could see he was clutching a written report her estate manager had prepared shortly before the accident that had incapacitated him for nearly eight months. She let out a whimper.

Chapter 9

The day following the funeral an exceedingly kind note was delivered from Elizabeth to Rosings Park. Among many pleasantries and concerns expressed for her health, Elizabeth thanked Lady Catherine for attending the funeral and expressed her sincere hope that they would see her again soon.

Very courteous, very proper, Lady Catherine thought to herself, so pleased was she that her heart began to thump again, the cavernous labyrinth of her rather bizarre mind beginning to expand and contract with plans and machinations.

“It is as I have always said,” she spoke aloud to her daughter, Anne, as the young woman sat testing her vision by placing one hand alternately over each of her eyes. “Breeding is inbred, Anne, remember this. It cannot be crushed by paucity of means. A gentleman is a gentleman to his bones, and his offspring cannot help but absorb this.”

Anne gave an involuntary shudder and checked the pulse on her left wrist. She compared this to her right. They differed. She was doomed.

“Perhaps I was too harsh on the girl, even though she rudely spurned all my attempts to help her. The poor thing must be in want of a mother’s direction now. It really never was her fault that she was so impertinent or ill mannered; after all, she never had the advantages that should have been hers, had she had a more civilized upbringing.” Catherine glanced toward her daughter for verification, a daughter who now held two fingers against her neck to verify her previous pulse readings. “Anne, you have such exquisite posture, and you know you look absolutely glowing in that shade of lavender.”

Anne wheezed.

As excited as Catherine was becoming, she was hard put to retain any sort of dignified expression. “Imagine that mother attempting to raise five daughters without a governess! My goodness, how can a young girl possibly be expected to acquire any polish in that havey-cavey sort of atmosphere? I always felt that was odd, didn’t you? Her mother alone was obviously not up to such a task. Yes. Well, I can understand now how dear Elizabeth could have resented my kind offers of assistance.”

Catherine turned sharply toward her butler, the man innocently bringing in her afternoon tea and cakes. “It was never her fault, after all. I hope you realize that now!” she snapped.

Jamison automatically inclined his head for forgiveness.

“The poor dear had no training. None whatsoever! Think on that, Jamison, and try to show a little compassion in the future!”

“I am desolate, your ladyship.” The penitent Jamison bowed and backed out of the room.

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