by Anne Morris
But Fitzwilliam heard a caw, an ark, and looked up to see a number of crows—at least a half-dozen—perched on a branch overhead who seemed to be mourning the passing of Fitzwilliam Darcy with a cacophonous chorus. So noisy were they that Wickham did not hear the sound of the limb give way as it separated from the trunk of that old oak tree—though Fitzwilliam saw its movement. The branch came down with a ferocity Fitzwilliam did not think possible. He could only dive away from it as it came down right on top of George Wickham.
Wickham was knocked on top of his adversary, and over Darcy’s legs; the branch landed on Wickham’s back and pinned the two together in death.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Colonel Fitzwilliam wondered how he was going to break the news to Elizabeth Bennet.
Bingley would not leave Darcy’s body, but stayed with his friend, barking orders for a cart to be sent from the hall, and for servants to prepare a place for Darcy to be laid out in state once the body was transported back there. But Fitzwilliam did not need to see to his cousin’s earthly remains; he needed to impart the bitter news to Elizabeth Bennet that Fitzwilliam Darcy was gone.
The colonel realized that his cousin had not said one way or another if Darcy had asked the lady to marry him—despite that piece of paper which Fitzwilliam had retrieved from the coat pocket of Darcy’s jacket. Allen, the valet, had let him search for it. Somehow, Fitzwilliam knew it would be something his cousin would not let out of his sight. Were they betrothed or weren’t they? It probably did not matter. They had loved each other which made this task that much more daunting.
Maurice Fitzwilliam felt responsible. He had introduced them when he, smitten with Elizabeth and having met her at a ball, had his mother invite Elizabeth to dinner. His cousin, Darcy, had been invited to merely make up the numbers. Fitzwilliam had no concept what he was putting into play with such an invitation. Nor had he known what he was doing when they had ridden past The Three Blackbirds, and Maurice had called to his cousin to stop for a drink, only to find that fiend, Wickham, there. Wickham, who had given them so much trouble the previous summer with Georgiana at Ramsgate. Why had Fitzwilliam needed a drink? If not, none of this would have happened.
The guilt that he felt was fathomless as Fitzwilliam contemplated his part in his cousin’s death. He rode on this errand to tell Elizabeth Bennet of Darcy’s death. Bingley had provided him with directions, and Fitzwilliam attempted to retain them in his brain and repeat them almost as a mantra to himself. It helped to stave off worse thoughts and feelings.
It was difficult not to let other thoughts intrude, however. He rode with a mind full, pulling out small details of the events from the scene in that meadow. What if Darcy had shot at Wickham instead of deloping? What if he had not raised his arm so high? What if Wickham had shot just a modicum to the left or to the right?
Fitzwilliam rode towards Longbourn on this repulsive errand. He went over those final few seconds as he, Bingley, and Carter shifted that huge branch off of his cousin, to pull the dead Wickham off of Darcy. The rain washed over his cousin’s face, and there had been one final blink, one gasp from Darcy before the light had indeed faded from those dark, handsome eyes. Wickham had been wrong, and Darcy had survived him by one minute. Darcy had been vindicated after all, though it was a poor consolation.
The colonel rode out of the village, past an estate house looking small and a little worn as though its owner had not done all he could for its upkeep. Not far past that manor lay another, this one decent-sized. It was built of local stone and had a multitude of windows which seemed to form faces and was frowning at him as Fitzwilliam approached. He knocked and inquired for Miss Bennet, then corrected himself and asked for Miss Elizabeth as Maurice recalled that she was not the oldest sister.
Elizabeth Bennet appeared in the entranceway looking radiant with a sister at her side; this one was beautiful in a way which surprised him, but he did not let the young lady’s beauty distract him from his duty.
“Colonel Fitzwilliam! How pleasant to see you,” exclaimed Elizabeth Bennet. “This is my sister Jane.”
“Might I solicit a private audience with you, Miss Elizabeth?” Fitzwilliam charged, only acknowledging the sister with a slight nod. Elizabeth turned her head a little as though thinking through the reason for such a visit. He hoped Elizabeth would not think he was there to do such a thing as propose marriage to her when she was already pledged to another. Fitzwilliam was not such a rascal as to cheat his cousin. “I fear I bear news,” he offered.
Elizabeth looked at the sister, who silently nodded her consent. She led him to a saloon, just off of the foyer, closing the door. Elizabeth Bennet had a furrowed brow as she ran through the possible reasons for his calling and seeking such a thing as a private audience with her.
“Please sit down, Miss Bennet,” the colonel asked as she lingered by the door.
“As you wish,” she replied. Elizabeth went to sit in a small upholstered chair, sitting upright with her hands in her lap.
Fitzwilliam stayed on his feet as it would be impossible to sit. “Miss Bennet,” he stared at her lovely face and wondered for a second how it would change once he let her know his news. “Miss Bennet, I am afraid that Mr. Darcy died this morning.”
Elizabeth stared back, deprived of the normal strength she usually displayed as her shoulders sagged, her lips parted, though initially no words were uttered. A hand moved over to the arm of the chair, and Elizabeth gripped a hand around it, her fingernails digging into the upholstery.
“How can he be gone? He called on me three days ago, right before he left for London! I can still imagine him. He still lives in my heart,” a hand thumped herself on the chest and then remained there. “I was…I was just recalling this morning a particular evening in London, right before I returned home, when I came to realize how much I loved Mr. Darcy, even though it took him a few more months to realize it.” Her happiness at the memory almost overcame her growing despair at his loss.
His gut twisted as he watched the conflicting emotions passing over her face. Fitzwilliam reached for his hip flask, needing a shot to bolster himself, but then he wondered if Miss Bennet herself needed help. Maurice offered the flask to her. “Brandy. French Brandy.” She took the flask and sipped.
Elizabeth’s lips twitched as though she was going to smile; her eyes turned to Fitzwilliam’s and focused intently on him. “How is it that he is gone? He was in perfect health three days ago. He is a young man.” Her hands expressed her emotions more than her face did, one was white and red as it tightly clasped the flask, the other pressed against her chest; pressing her down into the chair, but her voice was still not overcome with emotion.
“He was shot in a duel,” Fitzwilliam began. “He and I returned to Meryton yesterday eve.” Maurice did not wish to explain their actions, so he paused. Elizabeth’s eyes narrowed, but she did not look away.
He continued. “We ran into an old adversary, Mr. Wickham, who is part of the local militia here.” The way her eyes widened, Fitzwilliam could tell that she knew the blackguard, though Elizabeth said nothing. “He made disparaging remarks against you and Mr. Darcy’s sister, so Darcy challenged him to a duel.”
He watched as this news sunk in, and as Elizabeth Bennet’s face fell, her mouth opening slightly as the realization that Mr. Darcy had fought and died in a duel for her honor settled in her brain. She started to shake her head slowly from one side to the other.
“Was it quick?” she asked.
“It was a belly wound,” Fitzwilliam answered. He would not shield her sensibilities; there would be time for care-taking later. “Darcy said to tell you that he loved you. His last thoughts were of you.”
“It cannot be! He cannot be dead! We have the deepest love for each other.” Her eyes blinked, and tears came to the edges. Elizabeth blinked again, and they flowed in earnest then; the hand on her breast came to wipe at them. “What began in London carried over with this chance meeting in Hertfordshire. We were assur
ed that ours was a deep and abiding love, and how is it possible that he has died?”
“I’m sorry. I’m heartbroken myself, Miss Bennet.” Fitzwilliam thought about his being called to his general back in June and that Darcy had stepped in and won such a woman, could Maurice have successfully wooed her himself?
“I need to see him,” Elizabeth declared. Her hands gripped the flask, clinging onto it as though the bottle was feeding her life force.
“I’m not sure that is wise,” Fitzwilliam soothed.
Elizabeth looked up. “I am well used to seeing death, colonel. It may be the last time I see him. It shall not be real unless I do.”
Fitzwilliam could understand that. Darcy had fled from London to his father’s side in a remarkably short amount of time upon receiving word of his father’s death. And Darcy himself had expressed disbelief until he had seen his father’s body, not willing to believe his father was gone from him.
“I would wish to spare you such a sight, such a visit, Miss Bennet,” Fitzwilliam tried again, in soothing tones.
“I need to see him. Won’t you take me to see him?” she pressed again. Elizabeth stood. There was silence, and an awkwardness which had never been there before in their acquaintance.
“I came on horseback. Shall I direct someone to saddle a horse for you?” Fitzwilliam asked.
“I am no horsewoman,” Elizabeth stated plaintively.
“A carriage then,” he said.
The colonel walked to the door and opened it. That pretty sister stood about ten feet away. Fitzwilliam did not think that Jane Bennet had been listening with her ear to the door, but he thought that she was waiting for their tete-a-tete to end.
“Miss Bennet?” Colonel Fitzwilliam asked. It was a question.
“Yes?” Jane responded.
“I need to take Miss Elizabeth to Netherfield. Is it possible to have a carriage ordered?” Fitzwilliam urged, not confident if he sounded authoritarian or kind.
“I will ask Papa,” Jane responded, confused. The young lady turned away. He thought she ought to know.
“Miss Bennet,” Fitzwilliam called her back. “Mr. Darcy has died.”
The sister cried out, crossing her arms and clutching at her sleeves. “Mr. Darcy…is dead?” Her tears fell freely from her eyes as Miss Bennet forwent any attempt to control her expression of feelings. Fitzwilliam found himself having to play the courtier, having to lead her to a seat in the entrance hall. It was Elizabeth Bennet who came to help, had a servant called to her sister’s side, and who also had the bother of ordering the carriage.
***
The Netherfield staff had laid out Mr. Darcy on planks of wood covered by sheets in one of the ground-floor drawing-rooms. Allen had dressed him, so he looked calm and presentable as Darcy lay there in that formal manner. His skin was ashen, almost white, and Elizabeth stood over him with the colonel at her side.
“He’s an Adonis, isn’t he?”
A pain thrust and sparked inside him as those words hit him—such a preference and love for Darcy. Fitzwilliam was not sure how to answer that, was she referencing merely his cousin’s beauty or was there something else? He had studied Greek after all.
Elizabeth put a hand first on his sleeve and then on Darcy’s cheek. “He does not feel so cold that he feels…gone,” she observed. “He does not look much different. Though I cannot say that I have ever seen him sleeping,” Elizabeth blushed with maidenly innocence. “Where did it happen?” She turned from Darcy all laid out to look at Fitzwilliam. He had been so caught up in watching her that it took a moment to understand her question.
“The duel?” Fitzwilliam clarified.
“Yes,” Elizabeth answered.
“There is a meadow in the Netherfield Woods which was apparently used in the past for picnics, but the staff suggested it. We have tainted it now,” Fitzwilliam said bitterly, his stomach turning over.
“Take me,” demanded Elizabeth.
“Miss Bennet!” he cried then with a sharp note in his voice. Fitzwilliam had to stem this seeking and take her home to her family.
Elizabeth persisted. “No, I need to see where it happened.”
“There is nothing to see,” he insisted. “Let me take you back to your family. You need rest and their attention.”
Elizabeth Bennet, however, was not to be dissuaded. It made no sense to order a carriage to take her there; Fitzwilliam did not wish to walk with Elizabeth by his side, but horseback was not an option either. Fitzwilliam enlisted Bingley’s attention for five minutes in an attempt to dissuade her from going, but she was adamant that she needed to see where Darcy had died. Bingley was so consumed in his own grief that he was not an adequate counselor in this situation and merely said “you should not attempt it,” which were faint words to Fitzwilliam’s stronger ones.
It was tortur]e to return to that meadow. Physical pains beset Fitzwilliam as they walked beneath umbrellas; the sky was gray, a fine mist about them. They moved from the formal lawns and gardens just beside the hall to a lesser-crossed path, onto an even fainter one which came out onto that now cursed meadow. The pair were silent the entire walk.
Elizabeth stared up at the ancient oak tree eying its glory and magnificence. “They do like the ancient trees,” she remarked.
“Who?” asked Fitzwilliam, who found her words, how she chose to break the silence, unusual.
“The crows.”
Maurice thought the remark odd but did not comment further.
Fitzwilliam’s eyes strayed to the dark stain next to where the fallen branch lay. He did not want to stare obviously at it. With the darkness of the day, the current dampness, and the previous rain, Fitzwilliam wasn’t sure if Elizabeth understood that that was Darcy’s blood there on the ground—but he certainly was not going to bring her attention to it.
“His father passed away on your father’s estate,” she remarked.
It was not really a question, and Fitzwilliam looked away from the blood stain to see Elizabeth Bennet in profile. She was looking off to the distance as if looking off at some memory. It was a statement, but he confirmed it.
“Yes, Uncle Darcy had an attack of the heart and died at Langley five years ago.” He wondered why Elizabeth was considering that, but then he thought it logical to be thinking about death, the death of the father if she was considering the death of the son. Darcy had obviously told Elizabeth the story of his father’s passing. Fitzwilliam thought that indicative of the relationship between the two of them. That Darcy, who had been so grieved when his father passed that he could not speak of it, could speak of Uncle Darcy to this young woman whom he loved.
“How far is Langley from here?” Elizabeth asked next.
That question did surprise him. “About seven or eight miles. Perhaps ten?” Fitzwilliam had no real context as he had never ridden from his father’s estate to this town. This was his first visit to Meryton, with its ill-fated stop at The Three Blackbirds.
“I wonder how long it would take to walk there?” pondered Elizabeth Bennet. He did not think she was really asking him.
“Why do you need to know?” Fitzwilliam asked instead. She did not answer, but was still staring off, lost inside herself. Elizabeth’s face was pale, almost as pale as Darcy’s had been as he lay in state at Netherfield.
“Have you seen what you needed to see?” Fitzwilliam prompted as the silence came over them even though there was noise about them: the dripping of water from the trees, the rustling of the wind through the branches, little snaps, and pops of life and activity despite the grayness of the day. The cold, damp air threatened him, and Maurice found himself uncomfortable as though the grave was whispering to him, and he could not fathom how Miss Bennet could handle standing there.
“We should return, let me take you home,” Fitzwilliam insisted.
“No,” Elizabeth stood her ground. He took a step closer to her and attempted to clasp an elbow, but Elizabeth took a step away, and it almost sounded as though she stomp
ed her feet. Elizabeth Bennet was too well-mannered to do that, and it was merely that noises were enhanced here; it was too quiet and sounds reverberated. “No, I do not wish to leave.”
There was something in her throat, a sound, and Fitzwilliam thought she had started crying. Fitzwilliam had never dealt well with tears even though he shared the guardianship of Georgiana Darcy. He had left the dealing of Georgiana’s tears to Darcy. Suddenly, Fitzwilliam put a fist over his mouth as he realized that he had someone else to notify of Darcy’s death. He also realized that he was now the sole guardian of Miss Darcy. Perhaps there was a provision in the will that someone else would step up and help him, but here was yet another task to do that day.
The branch was still at his feet, large, solid, a bully. Maurice’s anger flared, and he felt tears in his throat even as he wished for nothing more than a hatchet so he could take it to task, chop the wood into nothing but fragments so small that they could not be used even to start a fire. Fitzwilliam was mad enough that he placed a well-aimed kick against the branch which did nothing but scuff the end of his boot.
“I still say he’s not gone,” Elizabeth said. Her voice was deep with emotion, a despair which echoed the one which was stuck in his throat. “I still say he’s not dead. He did not look gone as he lay there in the drawing-room.”
“Please let me take you home,” Fitzwilliam’s voice was deep, not sounding like himself, sad.
“We must wait and see,” said this unusual young woman.
“Wait and see? What are you looking for Miss Bennet?”
“I cannot explain,” Elizabeth responded. “I cannot explain,” her voice was so faint Fitzwilliam could barely hear the repeated statement. “You shall think I am mad.” Again it was the softest voice. “I loved him more than anything. It was the deepest love. One that only occurs but rarely…the sort of love that transcends, I think, even death.”