Coincidence

by Jann Rowland

  “You seem to be caught in the grip of some powerful thoughts, Cousin.”

  A smile settled over Fitzwilliam’s face, and he turned and bestowed it on his companion. Now here was a woman on whom Fitzwilliam wished to fix his attention—had already fixed his attentions. Anne had indicated a desire to walk that morning, and Fitzwilliam—realizing an opportunity when it presented itself—had immediately stated his intention to accompany her.

  “I will own that my thoughts have been a little more serious of late, Anne,” replied Fitzwilliam.

  She quirked an eyebrow at him, a delightful expression he had not seen often from her; perhaps her mother would not have approved. “I can be serious on occasion. We do not all have to be sober and boring all the time like Darcy.”

  “Our cousin has a measure of lightness about him of late,” said Anne, her tone faintly admonishing.

  “And I think we both know why.” Fitzwilliam grinned, raising an eyebrow of his own. “I suspect it is not his own doing.”

  Though she attempted a stern look, it was ultimately unsuccessful, and soon Anne was unable to stifle a giggle. Fitzwilliam looked on with smugness. Regardless of everything that had passed, he had always been able to make Anne laugh.

  “It is not Darcy I wish to discuss at present,” said Fitzwilliam a moment later. “I dare say we do not need to concern ourselves any longer for him.”

  “Oh?” asked Anne, seemingly unconcerned. Fitzwilliam was not deceived, nor did he think she mistook his meaning—they had been moving toward this since they had rescued Anne from Rosings, and their discussion soon after they had arrived in Brighton had made it official. What Fitzwilliam could not quite determine was whether Anne was as affected by him as he was by her.

  Coming to a decision, Fitzwilliam turned to face her, while taking a quick look about. Sometime earlier they had entered a city park which lay close to the family residence, and though there were other people in evidence, the greenery about them was such that they had a modicum of privacy. It was perfect for what he had in mind.

  “I believe you know why my thoughts have tended toward soberness of late, Anne. Darcy may find his own path; I wish to discover mine. Unless I am very much mistaken, I think our paths will closely coincide.”

  Anne watched him, her expression unreadable. Fitzwilliam did not believe she was unmoved, but there was a certain sense of . . . uncertainty about her. For the moment, he decided to ignore it—they would discover and overcome whatever bothered her together.

  “I never expected this,” said he, his voice quiet. “I remember you as a child, how mischievous and playful you were. You were the little imp who followed Darcy and me about, attempting to insert yourself into our games.”

  “You, of course, were annoyed with me,” replied Anne.

  “I do not deny it, though we were amused at times with your persistence. But then as we grew, and the demands of maturity and station came between us, we grew apart, and we became strangers. This past spring, when we brought you out of Kent, changed something fundamental about my thinking. I began to recognize in you the child I had known, who had somehow disappeared over the years.”

  “Fitzwilliam,” said she, her tone slightly admonishing, “do not bring up the past again. Part of what happened in the family and to me in particular was my fault. You need not blame yourself.”

  “I understand,” said Fitzwilliam, reaching out to her and grasping her hands in his own. “Perhaps it was meant to be this way. For though we spent many years lost in the wilderness, it seems to me that we have found our way to each other at last.” He paused and smiled at her. “I do not intend to let go again.”

  Anne returned his smile, though it was a tremulous gesture, but she hesitated before speaking. Her eyes, luminous between her long lashes studied his, and then her gaze fell to the ground beneath their feet, seemingly unable to hold his own.

  “What is it?” asked Fitzwilliam, his thumbs tracing circles on the back of her hands.

  “I am not insensitive to your words,” replied she, though she did not raise her gaze to meet his. “I have felt our closeness and I have rejoiced in it. But I . . .” She shrugged a little, helplessly. “My health,” concluded she, as if that said it all.

  “Is much improved,” said Fitzwilliam.

  Huffing a little, Anne’s eyes finally rose to meet his own. “I do feel much stronger since I have come away from Rosings. But . . . I have spent so many years in ill health that I wonder if I have the strength to be a wife. I wonder if I have the strength to be a mother.”

  “Anne,” said Fitzwilliam, his tone chiding, “I believe you underestimate yourself. You are stronger than you think. In fact, you will be even stronger with a partner to walk the paths of life, to steady you when you falter.” He grinned. “Darcy would claim that you would keep me from wandering astray, impudent as he is.”

  Laughing, Anne directed an impish little smile at him. “You are a little unmanageable.”

  The atmosphere between them seemed to lighten as they laughed quietly together, and a warmth was entering Anne’s eyes that almost took Fitzwilliam’s breath away. He had known what he felt—had known what she felt—but there is always some little doubt lingering, digging its insidious claws into the mind and causing fear to spring up where there should be none. This courting business was much more difficult than fighting the French, Fitzwilliam mused, for at its simplest, war was nothing more than finding your enemy and pulling the trigger. The enemies one encountered while courting were not so easily vanquished.

  “Do not devalue yourself, Anne. You have much to give any man.” Fitzwilliam paused, wondering how to phrase his next statement. “When you doubt your ability to be a mother, may I assume that you are more concerned with the act of giving birth?”

  A sigh escaped Anne’s lips and she directed a rueful look at him. “You do. It . . . causes me no small amount of fear.”

  “I am more than willing to forego such things, if it brings you to me.”

  “You would declaim your marital privileges?” asked Anne, eyes wide.

  Fitzwilliam shook his head. “I am as much a man with needs as any other, dearest Anne, and I dare say you would find the act as pleasurable as I. But there are ways to avoid conceiving, if one knows them.”

  “And what of the need to provide an heir for Rosings?” demanded she.

  “Are you not neglecting to consider an heir by not marrying? As your mother is so fond of pointing out, Rosings is not entailed. Should you and I fail to provide an heir, it may be left wherever we please. Darcy’s second son, for example, could be designated as an heir.

  “But more to the point,” said Fitzwilliam, “I am convinced that you are stronger than you give yourself credit. I do not doubt you will be able to bear a hundred children, should you so choose. Whatever comes, we will face it together.”

  “If there are a hundred,” replied Anne, a smile playing about the corners of her mouth, “I believe I will insist that you bear them.”

  A loud lusty laugh was Fitzwilliam’s response, accompanied by Anne’s tinkling giggles. He squeezed her hands and gazed on her with affection. “I believe that many will not be necessary—we are not required to populate all of England ourselves. But I believe you could well withstand one or two. And if we are not blessed with children ourselves, then I will be satisfied with a lovely, amiable, and slightly impertinent wife.”

  “And what of my mother?” asked Anne, her impish smile suggesting that she was teasing. “Having wished to have Darcy as a son all these years, do you think that she will accept you?”

  “I will handle your mother,” replied Fitzwilliam. “Of course, since you handled her yourself when she came here, I do not doubt that you could do it yourself, should you choose to do so.”

  A blush settled over Anne’s face, but she was not displeased by the reminder. “My mother is not nearly as formidable as she chooses to think herself.”

  “That is the spirit!” said Fitzwilliam. “A
s long as you ascribe such ridiculous behavior to your mother, she can have no power to intimidate you.”

  “Now, Fitzwilliam,” said Anne with a hint of sternness—which he thought was entirely feigned, “I will not have you making sport with Lady Catherine. She is, after all, my mother, and though she may not always deserve it, she will have our respect.”

  Fitzwilliam laughed. “Then I shall leave all thoughts of making sport with her to you. I have no reason to quarrel with her, if she accepts our relationship.”

  A raised eyebrow was Anne’s response. “Relationship? To the best of my knowledge, we have decided on nothing.”

  The challenge in her voice was irresistible, and Fitzwilliam had an instant glimpse into what their married life would be. She was, perhaps, a little more like Miss Elizabeth than he had thought, and the idea that she would keep him on his toes and provide him with a lifetime of companionship was welcome, indeed.

  “In that case, I must beg you, my dearest Anne, to accept my humble offer of marriage. I can offer little but a constant heart and endless adoration. I hope it is enough.”

  With a little laugh, Anne threw herself into his arms. “Of course it is enough, you big oaf.

  And with those words, they were silent for some time after, for they were much more agreeably engaged.

  Chapter XXVIII

  Elizabeth Bennet sought her bed, feeling for perhaps the first time in her life that she was completely and truly happy. The summer in Brighton had been a magical time, filled with good friends, a sister happily engaged, and an experience unlike any she had ever had before. Her younger sisters were behaving themselves, and she was not the target of her mother’s ire. Mrs. Bennet had taken to putting her forward as a desirable mate to Mr. Darcy whenever she had the chance, and while she might have appreciated circumspection from her mother, Elizabeth decided with a philosophical bent that she would take the approbation wherever she could. And Mr. Darcy had proven himself to be much more than she had ever expected. The man had not yet proposed, but Elizabeth was certain he was working up to it before they were scheduled to depart for their homes.

  The announcement of the day had been that of Colonel Fitzwilliam’s engagement to Anne, and Elizabeth could not be happier for her friend. The communication had been made almost as soon as the Bennets had arrived for a morning excursion, and the congratulations had flowed long and with all sincerity.

  “I am so happy for you,” said Jane as she leaned in to kiss Anne on the cheek. “I believe you shall be very happy.”

  Elizabeth voiced her own congratulations, but her words were filled with mirth. “Aye, I am certain you are capable of taming the good colonel and making him into a proper husband.”

  “What is this?” asked the man in question, though the glint in his eye belied anything other than good humor. “I will have you know that though I have no experience in being a husband, I believe I shall take to the station with tolerable ease.”

  Laughing, Elizabeth congratulated the colonel as well, though she was not finished teasing. “What of your new mother, Colonel? I would love to be a fly on the wall when you apply to her for the hand of your fair cousin in marriage. May I assume that you shall leave for Rosings directly?”

  “My mother will not be consulted,” replied Anne with a superior sniff. “I am of age, and there is little she can do to stop us.”

  They all laughed, even Mary, who seemed a little scandalized that they should be talking of an elder relation in such a manner. Even the youngest Bennets, who, despite their better behavior, thought of little but their own fun and men in red coats, seemed pleased for Anne.

  “I shall still be first to be married!” exclaimed Lydia, directing a mock frown at Jane. “For even if you are already engaged, I shall simply elope. I am certain it would be great fun if I—the youngest—were to be married first.”

  “And would you lose the time of your coming out, dancing with every young man you can find, and being the center of attention?” asked Colonel Fitzwilliam, though more in humor than censure.

  His words brought Lydia up short, but she soon shrugged them off. “I shall simply marry an officer, and then I shall have all those things anyway.”

  The elder siblings, along with their close friends, shared several ironic glances, but nothing further was said. Lydia persisted in speaking in such a fashion, even though she and Kitty spent little time in the company of men wearing red coats. At times, she seemed frustrated by her sisters’ reluctance to allow her to frequent such company, but Elizabeth thought she was not unhappy with her lot. Of course, when they finally returned to Longbourn, Elizabeth was certain the petulant Lydia would once again reappear.

  As for Anne and the colonel, Elizabeth watched them as they interacted throughout the day, and she was well satisfied with what she saw. They were perfectly well suited, seemed to be completely in love with each other, and Elizabeth thought the man’s family would particularly welcome the news as he would be able now to resign his position in the military and dedicate himself to a safer lifestyle. Elizabeth was not certain how a man of action would adapt to such a position, but the complacent way he gazed at his newly engaged fiancée suggested that he would have few regrets.

  Perhaps the only one happier for the couple than they were themselves was Mr. Darcy. No doubt he was anticipating being free of his aunt’s machinations concerning this cradle betrothal upon which she so often expounded. Soon after the announcement had taken place, Elizabeth had felt Mr. Darcy’s eyes upon her, and she had looked at him, noting the intensity with which he watched her. Elizabeth was certain that the man wished to be acknowledged as her fiancé, but that he respected her need to be certain of him before accepting a proposal. Though she did not quite know how to feel, Elizabeth was not at all sure that she would not accept him at that very moment.

  It was with these thoughts that Elizabeth retired that night, grateful for the magical time in Brighton, and though they were to return home in barely two weeks, she thought that the wonder of it all would be with her for the rest of her life.

  With such thoughts clamoring for attention in the confines of her mind, Elizabeth found it difficult to sleep. As such, more than two hours after retiring, she found her eyes still open to the darkened room, and sleep no closer than when she had sought her bed. After some more moments of considering the situation, Elizabeth decided that she was not likely to find sleep any time soon, and that she would be well served to find a book from the room her father had taken as his study, hoping to dull her senses enough to eventually find it possible to rest.

  Easing the door open to ensure screeching hinges did not wake the entire house, Elizabeth slipped from the room, and taking a quick look about to get her bearings, started off down the hall toward the stairs. The moon was bright that evening, casting shadows across the house which, though it had become familiar in the weeks in which they had stayed there, was still lacking the familiarity of home. A cloud passed over the city, blotting out the light of the moon, and deepening the shadows in the corridors she walked, and for a moment, Elizabeth could almost believe that she was the only denizen within, alone, with nothing but the night for company.

  A slight shake of her head dispelled these whimsical thoughts, and Elizabeth soon made her way down the stairs, taking them slowly and carefully, wishing for a moment that she had thought to bring a candle with her. Surely there would be one in her father’s room that she could light long enough to choose a book.

  When she attained the room, she did just that, taking a few moments to peer among the volumes available. The Bennets had been in Brighton now for long enough that her father had added to his already impressive collection. There were several works that Elizabeth had not yet read, some of which were somewhat scandalous, and even a liberal man such as her father might balk at allowing her, a young maiden, to read them. Shying away from them, Elizabeth considered the other works lined up neatly in a row on the bookshelves of the study.

  Elizabeth had j
ust decided on a small volume of poetry when her attention was caught by a rustling on the other side of the door, which stood slightly ajar. It was unclear what it was, but Elizabeth was certain that she had heard something, the faint sound like the clang of a bell in the darkness of the silent night, though she might have ignored it during the noise of the day. Curious as to what it might be, Elizabeth grasped her volume of poetry in one hand and stepped toward the door on silent feet, her footsteps soft as a cat’s touch on the tiled floor.

  When she reached the door, Elizabeth eased it open and peered down the hallway toward the stairs, seeing nothing. A glance to her right toward the front door of the house revealed nothing. It seemed as if fancy had caught hold of her, forcing her to imagine the noise when it was likely nothing more than something from the street below, or perhaps the rustle of the wind through an open window.

  Elizabeth turned and set the candle upon a small table nearby, intending to snuff it out when she heard the rustling again. It sounded distinctively like the swish of a woman’s skirts.

  Now certain her senses were not playing tricks on her, Elizabeth grasped the candle and swung the door wide open, moving toward the front door. As the light from the small flame filled the entrance of the house, there in the corner, near the coat rack, stood a shadowed figure in a dress, frozen in the act of pulling a pair of gloves onto her hands. The eyes widened in surprise at seeing Elizabeth standing there in her nightgown and wrap.

  “Lydia?” asked Elizabeth, shocked to see her sister standing there. “What are you doing?”

  When her sister did not respond, Elizabeth’s suspicion bloomed, and she stepped forward, confronting the girl. Lydia shrunk back in the face of Elizabeth’s obvious ire, her eyes darting this way and that, as if attempting to find some means of escape.

  “What is the meaning of this?” asked Elizabeth, raking her eyes over the form of her youngest sister. The flickering light of the candle revealed that her sister was fully dressed, wearing a light pelisse over a dress of heavy fabric made for traveling. Her gloves were of the long variety, covering her arms several inches above the edge of her cuffs, and at her feet sat a small portmanteau, the side of which bulged as if she had packed everything she owned within its confines. And Lydia wore a pair of light half boots to protect her feet. She wore the garb of a woman who intended to travel.