Undoing

by L. L. Diamond

  She nuzzled her nose in Alexander’s hair and breathed. Fitzwilliam loved her. He loved their son. He would return. He had to return. “Perhaps I am overtired. I shall return to my rooms until dinner.”

  Elizabeth stood and left Nicholas and Jane to themselves. When she was finally in the privacy of her rooms, she placed Alexander in his cradle and watched him sleep for a moment. Once she was assured he would not immediately wake at not being in someone’s arms, she laid down on the bed and cried herself to sleep.

  “Blast!” Fitzwilliam set down his pen, propped his elbows on his desk, and rested his forehead in his hands. Why could he come up with the words he wanted when he was at the solicitor’s or at his aunt’s, but when he tried to write to Elizabeth of his feelings, the attempts reminded him of bad poetry—the kind that would starve a deep, healthy love entirely away.

  He penned that letter of business to Elizabeth, but he had not responded to her other correspondence. The letter had been aught that he had needed to hear. He had not the words to tell her of his frustration at Lady Matlock’s matchmaking.

  While he missed Elizabeth and Alexander dreadfully, he had found it easier, for the time being, to be away. He could not reveal what he should not when he was in London, and he did not have the stress of pretending he and Elizabeth were no more than friends.

  He sighed and stared at the blot of ink on the paper in front of him. Eventually, he would give in and travel to Hertfordshire, but for now, he would let as much time pass as he could stand. Perhaps it would be easier for the both of them.

  A knock at the front door rattled through the house. Footsteps passed the door to his study and the voice of his aunt filtered through the gaps at the door. Swiftly, he covered the letter he was attempting to write and stood when the butler opened the door.

  “Lady Matlock, sir. I apologise, but she insisted.”

  “What is this?” His aunt pushed past the butler and held up the note he had sent that very morning.

  He drew his eyebrows toward the centre with a frown. “Have you not read it?”

  “I have, and I am quite put out. When I learnt you would be in London, I organized this ball to help you find a wife, and you refuse to come.”

  He exhaled and prayed for patience. “I am well aware of your reasons, Aunt, yet I never requested your aid.”

  “Well, apparently you have need of it. Nicholas is married and settled, and you require an heir.”

  Fitzwilliam drew himself up as tall as he could. “None of those ladies you paraded in front of me at that ridiculous dinner interest me. None of the ladies you have invited to this ball will interest me either. I hold a tendre for a particular lady. When she is able to wed, I shall request the honour of her hand and only her hand. I shall marry no other. Your attempts are futile, and I beg you to cease this hideous mission you have adopted.”

  His aunt’s eyes were now wider, and she bent a bit closer. “Who is this lady?” Her voice had adopted a higher pitch. Blast! He had set a dog after a bone.

  “I shall tell you at the proper time. Until then, that is between myself and the lady.”

  Lady Matlock’s expression became pinched. “This is an excuse. You will present yourself at my house. Now that Richard has returned, he will be present as well. Perhaps one of these ladies will do for him.”

  Good grief! None of them would consider Richard!

  “You may apply to Nicholas if you wish to know the truth of the matter since he knows all the particulars, though he will not tell you the name of the lady either.”

  His aunt pressed her lips together. “Very well, I will ask Nicholas. However, if you truly have a lady in mind, I can aid in your courtship.”

  A weary laugh escaped before he could stop it. Elizabeth liked Lady Matlock, but he could only imagine her reaction to his aunt’s interference. “No, you cannot. Please let well enough alone.”

  His aunt gripped her hands into fists at her sides. “I am seriously displeased, Fitzwilliam.”

  “I apologise.” Why did she suddenly remind him of Lady Catherine? With Nicholas married, Lady Matlock seemed to become ripe with a fever for all of them to wed. Who she thought she could convince to marry Richard did make him curious. Perhaps she hoped he might settle and become respectable? One thing was certain, that would need to be one unalterable settlement, else he would squander the lady’s fortune in a fortnight.

  With a huff, she marched from the house. As soon as the carriage could be heard departing, he dropped into his seat. He needed to find a place to hide!

  “Sir?”

  He looked up to the butler poking his head through the door. “Pardon me for interrupting, but a courier arrived a short time ago with a letter. I thought it better to wait until Lady Matlock departed.” Mr. Briggs entered the remainder of the way and held out an envelope.

  “Thank you.”

  Upon the door closing, Fitzwilliam noted Carlisle’s handwriting and immediately broke the seal. Was Elizabeth well? What of Alexander? His fingers fumbled when he opened the piece of paper only to find two sentences written in a single line.

  Darcy, you addlepate! Send Lizzy a letter of love, not business!

  He sank into his chair and blew out a noisy exhale. If Carlisle sent this message, Elizabeth must have been upset. Oh well! He had tried, but he had also promised to treat Elizabeth with more respect, which was why he wrote the letter of business first. He drew out a sheet of clean paper. Whether this one resembled horrid poetry or not, it had to be sent.

  Chapter 22

  October 18th 1810

  Darcy House

  London

  Dearest Lizzy,

  I hope you are enjoying this time with your sister and the rest of your family. I am pleased to know of Bingley’s safe arrival at Stoke, though perhaps not so much of poor Miss Bennet’s dilemma from your mother to pursue him. It is good of you and Lady Carlisle to stand up for her as you do. She has no need to hurry to the altar should she not desire it, and should she never wed, she has a place in your home and I know Carlisle’s too for the rest of her life. It is only right you protect her as you ought.

  As for Miss Bingley and Mrs. Hurst, I advise you to use the excuse of mourning whenever they visit. You are well aware of the nature of both ladies. They will seek you and Jane out for the purpose of advancing themselves within the ton rather than some notion of kindness. If you can avoid them, it would be best to do so while you can.

  Georgiana does well with school. She misses me and has expressed her wish to see you and Alexander soon. Perhaps Carlisle and Jane might bring you to London during the Christmastide. You begin your half-mourning in February, so you could order suitable gowns and spend time with Georgiana also.

  Lastly, I love you, and I miss you. I am uncertain if being away is less painful, yet I firmly believe I could not be near without wishing to be closer than is proper. I shall do this as I should have from the beginning. You are my heart. I shall prove that to you.

  Yours,

  Fitzwilliam

  Elizabeth sighed and leaned her head against the side of the window seat. Early in her stay at Netherfield, she had found one window tucked to the back in a small alcove of books where she could hide and read. Some days, she sat while Alexander slept against her chest. At times, Lalande would close and lock the door so Elizabeth could nurse him. Mrs. Nichols and Millie also knew of her preference for the spot and knew where to find her should Alexander require her.

  At the moment, Miss Bingley’s strident tones could be heard through the walls from the drawing room where Jane had requested tea when the callers arrived. Lord, Elizabeth detested Miss Bingley and Mrs. Hurst! The former simpered and fawned the last time they had happened upon each other during a call while the latter merely smiled and allowed her sister to do all of the talking.

  Under different circumstances, Elizabeth would laugh off the ridiculous woman, however, Miss Bingley never failed to mention Fitzwilliam in the most familiar of terms. “Mr. Darcy is su
ch a great friend.” “Mr. Darcy arranged Stoke for us.” “Mr. Darcy is the best of brothers.” “We shall soon return to London to be in Mr. Darcy’s company once more.”

  “Mr. Darcy uses a solid gold chamber pot,” said Elizabeth softly in her best Miss Bingley impression.

  “She would like to believe that.”

  Elizabeth’s head whipped around to Nicholas standing behind her, laughing. “Forgive me,” she said, “I suppose I am intemperate today.”

  He shook his head and stepped closer. “She grates on my nerves as well, and I do not have your excuse.” He pointed to the letter in her hand. “Is that his most recent?”

  “No, this is from a fortnight ago. When he mentioned us travelling to London for the Christmastide.” A part of her desired nothing more than to rush to him, but she was ill-equipped to face those who would whisper behind their hands and stare while she shopped for her half-mourning attire.

  “Have you changed your mind about making the journey?”

  She shook her head while she stared at the letter. “Madame Bonheur is sending one of her seamstresses to us, and my aunt has sent me some lovely fabric my uncle brought home. I miss dearest Georgiana, but I do not want to travel to London.”

  Lord, she longed for Fitzwilliam, and she did want to see Georgiana. She simply had no desire be forced to contend with London society. Lady Vranes and Lady Matlock, however, were the exceptions—even in the face of Lady Matlock’s scheming to marry off her Fitzwilliam.

  “Well, sister,” said Nicholas, holding out his hand to help her up. “I have come to inform you that you have a surprise in the hall.”

  “I do?” Her stomach fluttered. Could Fitzwilliam have finally come? She hopped up and hurried to the hall, pausing when she entered. “Miss Geddes?”

  The girl curtseyed and smiled. “Your Grace.” She stepped forward and held out a letter. “Lady Vranes sent me along with this note.”

  Elizabeth took the missive and unfolded it.

  October 25th 1810

  Vranes House

  London

  Dearest Lizzy,

  Yes, I have sent Miss Geddes to you once again. I send her to you so you might finally have your portrait made, and she is under strict instructions to paint only you this time. I do not mind your gift to Mr. Darcy, and I am pleased you did so since the Darcys needed a bit of happiness during that trying time. Miss Geddes is extremely proud of the work. I have seen her sketches and studies, and I know she painted a beautiful portrait. This time, however, I want you and your son immortalised for a place of honour at Worthstone.

  I know you are in mourning, but I hope you will wear colour for the portrait. While black might be the tradition, other colours complement you more.

  I shall miss your company greatly this season, but I do understand your reluctance to journey to town. I shall anticipate your eventual return or your acceptance to visit us in Bedfordshire. Your son is welcome as well. I would never expect you to leave him, particularly at such a tender age.

  Yours sincerely,

  Laura

  Elizabeth lightly laughed while she folded the letter. “What colour do you suggest?”

  Miss Geddes smiled and tilted her head. “Perhaps a shade more suitable to half-mourning—lavender or plum rather than grey. If you are more comfortable in black, I do not object.”

  “If the portrait is to hang at Worthstone, ’tis my preference to remain in mourning attire. I would not want anyone to assume I had so little respect for the duke to mourn him less than was his due. Perhaps you could paint a smaller piece—a miniature, for me? You could copy the larger work, if possible, but paint my gown a different colour?”

  The girl smiled and nodded. “I could certainly do so, ma’am.”

  Nicholas wore a wide grin when Elizabeth turned to him. “I shall speak to Mrs. Nicholls about a room for Miss Geddes,” he said. “The Bingley sisters have been here nearly fifteen minutes. If we wait for them to depart so Jane might do so, Miss Geddes will be standing in the hall until dinner.”

  Her brother only disappeared for a moment before Mrs. Nicholls bustled in and gestured them to follow her upstairs. She settled Miss Geddes in a guest room, insisting the sitting room would give the artist the necessary space to set up and paint. “Footmen will clear a space for you this afternoon. Pray let us know what you will require for Her Grace to pose.”

  After agreeing to begin the following morning, Elizabeth excused herself to feed Alexander since he would certainly be waking soon. When she entered his room, he pushed his head from the cot and smiled the moment his eyes set upon her.

  “You are such a sweet boy,” she said softly when she lifted him. “Are you ready to have your portrait painted, young man?” He smiled and buried his face in her chest. “I think you would prefer to eat at this moment.”

  As he always did, he latched on without difficulty, swallowing in large gulps when her milk came. “The weather is much nicer since the fog lifted. Would you like to go outside?” He paused suckling while the corners of his lips turned upwards and his eyes shone. He was such a happy child. His break to smile did not last long since he soon became more serious about finishing his meal.

  Lalande brought her two shawls and a spencer once he finished eating. After Elizabeth donned her spencer, one shawl was wrapped around Alexander to keep him warm and to support him in an almost sling tied to her body. The weather was not too cold today. He should be well in the shawl as well as the extra she would wrap around herself.

  She held the other shawl and her bonnet as she walked downstairs, nearly turning immediately back up at Miss Bingley’s cloying voice in the hall.

  “Your Grace, I was beginning to think you had departed the neighbourhood. I must say we have not seen you in a fortnight at least. You should have come to the assembly last week.” Mrs. Hurst followed Miss Bingley into a tirade of titters. “I daresay the fashion of Hertfordshire was not to be missed.”

  Lord, help her. She needed to keep a neutral expression, but the woman made her spine rigid, particularly the sarcasm Miss Bingley used to deride anyone the so-called lady felt beneath her. “I am in mourning. I keep to small family parties and the dinners my sister hosts. I really have no desire to attend more at this time.”

  Miss Bingley’s beady eyes lit when she noticed Alexander strapped to Elizabeth’s side. “Is this the young duke?”

  Elizabeth barely suppressed a cringe. Her son might be a duke at his tender age, but she disliked people referring to him with his title. He was a mere babe and she did not want him given such deference at an early age. It would not do well for him to think himself too highly else he become like James or even like Miss Bingley. “Yes, this is my son.” She put on her bonnet. “I am taking him out to the garden for a walk. Pray excuse us.”

  “Well!” Miss Bingley placed a hand to her chest. “I have never heard such a thing. Do you not have a nursemaid to do such a tedious chore? A woman of your standing should, though you may not have been informed.” A gasp burst from Jane, but Elizabeth did not look at her. Her body shook in a way that threatened to explode.

  “I do have a nursemaid,” said Elizabeth, holding Alexander a little closer. “However, I enjoy spending time with my son. He does not interfere with my duties, and I want him to know I care for him. I have precious little respect for women who only have their children brought to them once a day for a few moments simply to lay eyes upon them. Those are not parents. Their child is nothing more than a thing to parade before company.”

  “Hear, hear!” Nicholas strolled into the hall. Had he heard her from his study? “My mother certainly never relegated us over to the nursemaid for constant care. She spent a great deal of her time with us. She even taught us our letters and how to write our names.”

  Mrs. Hurst’s eyes darted between Nicholas and Elizabeth while she clutched her reticule. “Caroline, perhaps we should take our leave.”

  After rolling her eyes, Miss Bingley scoffed. “I suppose we should
return to that wretched little hovel Charles saw fit to take. Why, the drawing rooms are ridiculously small. I can hardly receive callers without stuffing the room as one would a pheasant.”

  “On that point, you and my mother agree,” said Elizabeth. “Since I am fond of small parties, I did not mind the size of the drawing rooms when I lived there.”

  “You lived at the great house at Stoke?” Caroline’s voice rose and the pitch turned higher while she spoke.

  “Why, yes.” Elizabeth lifted her one eyebrow, pushing down that simmer that was threatening more and more to boil over. “The duke and I resided at Stoke briefly after our marriage. Since the estate is a part of the Osborne holdings, I could have spent my mourning there, but my sister and her husband were good enough to offer a room at Netherfield so I would not be lonely.”

  “You own Stoke?” asked Miss Bingley while Mrs. Hurst turned a sudden pasty colour.

  “Yes, Miss Bingley, I do.”

  Nicholas began coughing furiously before he bowed. “Pray excuse me. I shall check on your carriage, Mrs. Hurst, Miss Bingley.”

  Elizabeth curtseyed. “Miss Bingley, Mrs. Hurst.”

  Jane’s lips were pressed together as Elizabeth passed, but she said not a word. Her dearest sister would never be angry with her—especially in light of Miss Bingley’s appallingly rude behaviour. The problem was when that pretentious woman baited her, Elizabeth simply could not sit idly by and allow the insult to her family or the neighbourhood.

  One of the footmen stood near the house, keeping watch on her and Alexander while she walked through the gardens. While she studied a rose that had the temerity to bloom at the wrong time of year, footsteps made her look up.

  “You should not have lost your temper with Miss Bingley.”

  “She is rude and ill-tempered. I said nothing she did not deserve.” Elizabeth sniffed the rose. Its perfume was not as fragrant as those that bloomed in the summer, yet a hint of that odour lingered.