Undoing

by L. L. Diamond

  Yours very affectionately,

  Jane

  Elizabeth folded the letter and sighed, placing it upon the corner of her escritoire. She had already met with Mrs. Hamilton and arranged for her bedchamber to have new wallcoverings, replacing the faded ones with a floral, blue and white chintz fabric. New draperies were to be made and the furniture recovered all in the dark blue of the fabric along with new bedding.

  The effect would be elegant, if a little dark. Dark colours were not typically her favourite, yet she had favoured them more in recent weeks. Perhaps her mood had something to do with her choice?

  Without much thought, she rose and went to her room, finding Lalande and requesting her riding habit. She dressed and strode to the stable, pausing when she entered.

  “Your Grace?” said a groom, who was passing with a horse.

  “I want to ride. Pray prepare a mount for me, but not Thetis. I rode a more challenging horse at Pemberley. If you could find one for me here, I would be grateful.”

  He held up a finger. “I shall return.”

  Elizabeth whipped the crop against some grass outside the stable while she waited. Eventually, someone returned, only he was not the groom, he was the stablemaster. “Your Grace. I apologise for not greeting you. I was unaware you intended to ride today.”

  “Yes, it was a last-minute decision. I hope it is not a problem?”

  “Of course not. My groom tells me you do not wish to ride Thetis?”

  She exhaled and adjusted her gloves. “I rode a more spirited mare at Pemberley. I simply desire more than Thetis can provide.”

  He nodded and smiled. “I know just the horse.”

  When he appeared from the back of the stable, he led a mare so round she waddled. “I hope Daffodil will suit, ma’am.”

  Her shoulders dropped along with her hands to her sides. “No, she will not, but do not trouble yourself. I shall simply return to the house.”

  The stablemaster said something or another, no doubt in an attempt to placate her, but she did not bother to turn and continued until she reached the house. She marched directly to the duke’s study and knocked loudly. She certainly would not open a door of his without knocking again.

  He called her to enter, and she stepped through, coming to an abrupt halt when she stood in front of his desk. “I require a horse to ride.”

  His forehead crinkled as he sat back in his seat. “I have provided Thetis for your use.”

  “And I appreciate it. I do like Thetis, but I do not wish for a sedate wander around the grounds. I became accustomed to riding a more spirited mare at Pemberley and only wish the same opportunity to challenge myself here.”

  “Did you tell my stablemaster?” he asked with his brows drawn together in the middle. “I am certain he has a suitable mount.”

  Her hands shifted to her hips. “I did, and he produced a mare so round, I would be surprised if she does not carry a foal.”

  “Daffodil?” he said, his voice high-pitched.

  “Yes, that is her name.”

  He gave a low laugh and pushed himself from the desk in order to stand. “Come. I shall give him permission for you to choose your mount. I did not foresee him limiting you based on my initial suggestion. Georgiana and Fitzwilliam spoke of how well you rode at Pemberley, so I see no reason why you cannot have your choice of horse.”

  In under a half-hour, she galloped along the fields of Worthstone with a groom following close behind. Thus far, the ride had worked wonders for her mood, but she missed Fitzwilliam. Since they had no expectations of Georgiana being forced to maintain their pace, he often accompanied her on rides after the day they visited Stanage Edge. Georgiana was an accomplished rider, though she had never cared for riding with great speed. For Elizabeth, the speed made her flesh tingle, and her head clear of the troubles weighing her down. She felt more alive than at any other time. By introducing her to this, Fitzwilliam had, in a sense, freed her.

  She rode until she reached the summit of the peak she had ridden with Fitzwilliam and Georgiana. The view proved to be truly spectacular, the ridge stretching out before her.

  The dark, dapple-grey mare beneath her shifted on her feet, so she tightened her grip on the reins. The horse possessed a flowing, even stride that would keep Elizabeth’s rear from being terribly sore on the morrow. Thankfully, at her request, her husband had made the perfect recommendation. The stablemaster had opened his mouth as if he might protest, but wisely, never uttered a word. Instead, he fetched the horse.

  After she returned her mount to the stable, she happened upon her husband in the hall as she entered the house. “What do you think of the mare?”

  “I enjoyed her very much. Thank you.”

  The duke nodded. “Your birthday is next week. I confess I was unsure of what to give you, but if you truly like her, she is yours. Her name is Llamrei.”

  “The mare owned by King Arthur?”

  “According to Welsh legend, yes. You can give her a new name if you wish.”

  “No,” said Elizabeth. “The name suits her.” She took a step towards the stairs before she stopped and peered back at him. “Thank you for interceding with the stablemaster as well as for the horse. I am certain I shall enjoy her immensely.”

  “Good. I do desire your happiness.”

  “I know.” The words came out as almost a whisper before she turned and continued to trudge up the stairs. Her husband was not a terrible man by any means. He was kind to his tenants and to her, though they didn’t spend a prodigious amount of time in one another’s company. Yet, he definitely held a selfish streak she had not known existed prior to recent events. Their marriage and his expectations of her certainly illustrated he considered few beyond himself.

  Tears welled in her eyes as she thought of Fitzwilliam, who cared for his sister’s needs before his own, and at times, even her own concerns, even though they were no more than friends. She had indeed missed him during her ride, his quiet presence that bolstered her when she required the support. God help her, but she loved him. She loved a man who was not her husband. Her heart squeezed painfully in her chest. Her situation had been hopeless before, and now, it was doubly so.

  Lalande helped her refresh herself and don a clean gown, though only Lalande knew why, since it would be unlikely she would spend any time outside of her chambers.

  Her husband spent the day in his study with his steward before retiring to his bedchamber and requesting a tray. Elizabeth requested a tray of her own, and after she ate, she read until her eyes could barely stay open. She blew out the candle and was lost to her dreams.

  Fitzwilliam dropped into a chair by the window when he finally retired to his rooms. The day had been dreadfully long. He had been needed on one end of the estate, only to return home to discover he needed to ride back out to the same tenant’s farm. He was weary to the bone.

  He laid his head back and let his eyes flutter closed, imagining Elizabeth standing before him. She caressed his face and pressed her soft lips to his forehead, soothing his aching heart. He missed her dreadfully, though he needed to cease these useless fantasies. She was a married woman—not just married, but his cousin’s wife. His father would be horrified to know the object of his affections.

  “Sir?”

  His eyes popped open and his head jerked upright. “Yes?”

  “Forgive me for startling you, sir.” Bishop, his valet, stood before him with his dressing gown draped over his arm. “I have water for you to wash.”

  He rose with the speed of a man of sixty rather than five and twenty. “Thank you.”

  Once he was readied for bed, he climbed between the covers and stared at the canopy above him. “What am I to do? She cannot be mine, yet I cannot imagine my heart belonging to another.” He scrubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands. “I am hopeless.”

  He rolled to his side and closed his eyes. Elizabeth lay before him, her doe eyes soft and full of love for him, her hair spread in long curls across the prist
ine white pillow. His lips met hers, and he was lost.

  “Sir! Sir! You must wake up!”

  Fitzwilliam bolted upright, his entire body shaking and on edge, his breathing laboured. “Yes? What is it, Bishop?”

  “Fire in one of the tenant houses.”

  The last tendrils of sleep retreated, and he took a deep breath, trying to relieve the lingering effects of his dream. “Where? Which house?”

  “The Bradleys. The boy who came did not indicate how bad. Only that you should come immediately.” He held out a pair of breeches that Fitzwilliam began to slip onto his legs. “I believe your father has been awakened as well. I know he handed over control to you, but with his experience—”

  “My father’s experience makes him invaluable in this circumstance. He may have given me control of the estate, but he and I still discuss the business together. I value his opinion. He should be present regardless.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Bishop had him dressed in a lawn shirt and breeches with a greatcoat in a matter of minutes, and when he exited through the front door, his horse stood ready. He stomped his front feet and shifted from side to side, no doubt agitated by the early hour as well as the unease in the air. “What of my father?”

  “Beggin’ your pardon, sir, but he left nigh on twenty minutes ago.”

  Fitzwilliam did not respond but dug his heels into the horse’s flank, propelling the stallion forward into the dark. The waning crescent moon did little to illuminate the paths he travelled to reach the Bradley’s farm, yet he did not slow. He had ridden these routes through the forest enough to ensure no low-hanging branches would impede his pace, and he could not tarry. The Bradley’s farm, while not terribly far, was not close to the great house. Their cottage could be gone before he arrived if the blaze was too severe.

  A haunting glow filtered through the trees before he reached the clearing. “Blast!” He pulled his horse back as he neared and swung from the saddle. One of the nearby tenants grabbed his mount’s reins and led it away as Fitzwilliam strode closer to the house, assessing the situation. The other tenants manned a line of buckets from an offshoot of the nearby river to douse the blaze, but it had little if any effect on the flames pouring from the door and through two or three holes in the roof. The fire only grew and spread and would engulf the tiny cottage before long.

  He waved his arms in big motions. “Get away from the house! It is too severe!”

  One of the men turned. “But, sir,” he said, “your father went inside to find one of the children!”

  “He what?” Fitzwilliam’s eyes hurt from how wide he held them combined with the heat and the smoke that was inescapable, and they stung like the dickens. Why would his father take such an enormous risk? He ran both hands through his hair while he stared at the fire. He gave a yell, rushed to the line, and grabbed the first pail of water, tossing it onto the flames. “Hurry, man! We need to go faster!”

  A loud crack sounded, ripping a gaping hole in the night. If Fitzwilliam had not known better, he would have thought someone felled a great tree, but it was evident in a matter of seconds the only thing felled was what was left of the cottage. Fitzwilliam cried out and lunged towards the remains of the door, but several pairs of arms wrapped around him, pulling him back.

  As the roof collapsed, everything around him slowed to an eerie unnatural rhythm. People screamed in strange, low sounds, while the roof of the small cottage began to sink into the centre of the structure.

  “No!” The voice was his, yet it did not come from him. His arms reached forward as he pulled with everything he had to reach that door. He needed to get to his father! He had to help him! “Let me go!”

  With a reddish halo surrounding him, the outline of his father appeared in the now cavernous door as the rest of the structure caved. Fitzwilliam pulled with all his might to rip himself from those holding him back, but not one released him—they drew him back with more force than he could muster.

  One or two of his tenants rushed forward, but every last one of them disappeared in the wave of smoke and debris that billowed when the wreckage fell.

  “No!”

  The hands released him, and he flew at the last place he saw his father. People stood and stared, illuminated by the intensity of the fire still ravaging the debris. Buckets sat forgotten in people’s hands. Why would no one move?

  “Here!” he cried pointing to where the door once was. “We need water here. We have to find my father!”

  In but a moment, he was passed a bucket that he poured over the wood. As they put out flames, they removed charred remnants until they reached his father’s lifeless body and pulled him from the rubble.

  “Leave it!” He held up his hands to someone who attempted to step closer to the scalding rubble. “’Tis a lost cause! I want no one else harmed.”

  When they set his father in the grass, he held a bundle of blankets in a tight grip. One of the men withdrew the burden, and as it was unwrapped, a wail burst from the depths.

  “Harry!” A woman rushed forward and grasped the screaming and coughing child. “Thank God!” She kissed every inch of the child’s forehead while Fitzwilliam inhaled deeply and steeled himself to look at his father.

  Fitzwilliam squeezed his eyes closed as he lowered his head, only opening them when his father would be in front of him. His first sight was the charred, angry flesh of his father’s back. His inhale this time was not to bolster himself, but to keep from being violently sick at the sight before him.

  “Sir, we should put these blankets down before we move him. Would not do to get more dirt in the burns. Might fester.”

  Through the haze of noise around him, he nodded and helped spread the blanket on the ground. Carefully, he wrapped his arms around his father’s hips, trying to touch the remnants of his clothing rather than exposed skin, to shift him onto the makeshift bed. A low moan and cry startled him when they set his father down.

  “Father?” He crawled in front of him and leaned closer to his beloved face, marred badly by more burns.

  “Fitz?”

  “Shh, let us get you back to the house. We shall send for the physician. You will be well in no time.” His hand reached out to touch his father’s face, but paused. He would hurt him if he laid but a finger on him.

  “No.” His father coughed, wracking his broken body in the worst way. “The burns—too severe.” His voice rasped instead of the normal low tone Fitzwilliam had held dear since a small boy.

  The palm of his father’s hand lay in front of him, surprisingly uninjured, and Fitzwilliam placed his palm on top, the sole comfort he could provide without causing considerable pain.

  “You will be well. I promise.”

  His father’s head gave almost an imperceptible shake as he hissed. “Tell Georgiana—love her.”

  “Father, no.”

  “Love—you.”

  “We need you. Georgiana needs you. You cannot.” His eyes burned as a sudden dampness trailed down his face.

  His father’s fingers wrapped around his hand. “Take care . . .”

  “Take care?”

  His father swallowed and winced with a laboured whimper. No doubt the action pained him greatly. “Take care—Elizabeth. Thomas—” A shuddering breath jerked his father’s body, and he was still.

  “No!” He grasped his father’s burned cheeks, ignoring the angry sores. “Father, wake up!”

  “’Tis for the best, sir.”

  His body went rigid as he looked up. One of the Bradley’s neighbours knelt to his father’s other side. “Forgive me, but his injuries. He was in terrible pain. Knew a man burnt in a mine fire once—terrible thing, burn scars. Small ones aren’t much of a bother, but when they’re large, like these, they’re a plague on the man who bears them.” The man’s eyes held Fitzwilliam’s without letting go. “’Tis a blessing, this is. May not seem like it now, but it is.”

  The man wrapped the free end of the blanket around his father, covering him and p
reserving his dignity. Fitzwilliam lifted his head away from what he would be forced to face later and absorbed his mind in what was occurring in the present. Neighbours and servants all stood in a group. Some watched the blaze as it finished consuming the home while others watched him.

  A few men remained stationed near the opposite side of the house with buckets of water at the ready. Nothing could be done for the structure now, but they could not allow the blaze to spread. Fortunately, the autumn had not been a dry one thus far. A solid rain had fallen but two days ago. The fire was unlikely to spread.

  “Sir?”

  When he turned, several of the footmen stood to his side.

  “We came to help when we heard of the fire,” said the one in the middle.

  “One of the tenants has offered a cart, sir,” piped up a voice from the back.

  “We thought it would be a good idea to take your father’s body to the house.” The one in the middle glanced down to the blanket while he spoke. “It does no good to keep it here, and there is little we can do now. Harold offered to sit with the body and lead your father’s horse to the stables for you too.”

  Fitzwilliam swayed for a moment before he blinked and shook himself mentally and nodded. “Thank you.” He wiped his cheeks and rose. One of his father’s last acts was to give him control of Pemberley. George Darcy had the confidence in his son to run the estate, though Fitzwilliam maintained he desired his father’s counsel. Now, he was on his own whether he desired it or not. On his own to care for his tenants and servants, on his own to care for Pemberley, and on his own to raise Georgiana.

  The sun had slowly broken over the peaks by the time the fire became small enough to extinguish. They poured buckets of water into the ruins until the last of the glowing coals had blackened, tossed their buckets in a heap, and headed home for some much-needed rest.

  Fitzwilliam rode slowly. He was in no way ready to face what awaited him at Pemberley. How would he tell Georgiana that she would never see their father again? Then, there was the matter of his father’s body. He could never allow his young sister to see the body—he could never let her say goodbye. With her tender heart, she would have nightmares for months.