All's Fair in Love and War and Death

by Anne Morris

  “Miss Bennet how can I help you?” Fitzwilliam tried, though his voice broke. Maurice felt helpless and overrun with his own despair. He had a woman under his care who was not dealing with her grief in any predictable way. He could not consider what to do, or how to motivate her to return her to her family.

  “I need to stay here. I need to wait and see,” answered Elizabeth.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  It no longer rained, but heavy mist still enveloped them, casting shadows, and making the landscape about them appear blurred and distorted and off-color as they stood side-by-side. Elizabeth had moved a little under the enveloping branches of that ancient oak tree. She held the umbrella over her and looked out onto the meadow with an air of expectation. Elizabeth said she was waiting for something, but did not indicate what she was waiting for. Fitzwilliam had the sense that she would not tell him if he pressed, so he stood beside her as Elizabeth Bennet waited.

  It was late morning. Fitzwilliam thought that in most houses people would be considering a meal, though at Netherfield who knew what sort of routine would occur, given the blow they had all experienced. He had been up well before dawn. Fitzwilliam was weary, physically tired because of lack of sleep, but ground down because of grief and tethered now. Maurice felt as though he wanted to be doing something, to be moving. He wanted to be anywhere else but at the scene of the crime.

  Yet there was an invisible connection that had him strung to the woman beside him. Fitzwilliam could not describe the profoundness of why he felt he could not do anything without her permission just then. It was he who had first met her. He who had introduced Elizabeth to Darcy; Darcy who had come to ask Fitzwilliam to return with him to this small town and stand with him when Darcy married. But it was Fitzwilliam who suggested the drink. He would do anything for Elizabeth right now, as she stood mute beside him, without understanding why Elizabeth had to stand and stare off into the meadow at the place where Darcy had died. To not ask questions.

  ***

  Elizabeth stood in the middle of the meadow under those gray clouds and could sense the colonel’s frustration with her, his confusion about her actions. She knew she did not appear to be the proper grieving ‘widow.’ She and Darcy were not married, and yet Elizabeth felt as though she was a lamenting wife in this case. She and Darcy understood each other. There was love and humor and passion between them. It had been a match made in Heaven, and Elizabeth had been convinced that there was nothing which could sunder such a love.

  Elizabeth could not fathom that Darcy was gone. He had fought a duel for her honor! When she had touched his cheek, Darcy had not felt so very cold as Elizabeth had gazed down at him, all laid out in state. There had been hope born, because of her experiences with Mrs. Bennet and her grandmother, that she might see her beloved again. Though to see Darcy in such a manner meant to belie that warmth Elizabeth thought she felt in touching him. It would mean he had truly passed over to another world.

  Elizabeth attempted to push aside her feelings as she thought through the details of that afternoon two years ago: what she had experienced with her mother the day of Mrs. Bennet’s death. Her mother had died at home. Her grandmother had come to fetch her in order to impart some information or knowledge. Mrs. Bennet had, in turn, escorted Grandmother Gardiner back to her place of death—where Grandmamma had then passed over to another plane of existence.

  But her grandmother and her mother had lived in such proximity that the visit—the fetching—had happened quickly after her mother’s life had trickled out of her.

  What Elizabeth wondered was: did a soul waiting to escort another know that the death was to occur? Did they have foreknowledge? Did the escort leave their place of rest and pace towards the newly deceased only after the death, or did the attendant somehow miraculously appear at the deceased’s side? How did that work?

  But Elizabeth hoped for many things. She wondered who had come to fetch Mr. Darcy and whisper words into his ear. Elizabeth thought it might be his father, from what Mr. Darcy had shared about their relationship. The elder Mr. Darcy had been a father who had molded and shaped the son, who had done all he could to launch his son into the world. She believed that it was Mr. Darcy’s father who was to be his escort—his own specter of death—to pass on words of wisdom.

  Elizabeth also hoped that the escort had to travel from their place of demise. That there was a journey involved, for it had been hours since Mr. Wickham shot Mr. Darcy, hours before Colonel Fitzwilliam came to Longbourn to inform her. If the spirit of the senior Mr. Darcy appeared suddenly at Darcy’s side, Elizabeth would be too late to catch a final glimpse of her lover. But if the elder Mr. Darcy needed to travel from a far corner of Hertfordshire to Meryton, luck was with her.

  Grandmamma Gardiner and Mrs. Bennet had lived and died in such proximity to each other that the events of that afternoon had taken place in a short span of time, so it was entirely possible for her grandmother to have not known of Mrs. Bennet’s death beforehand--to have been informed afterward. She could then have walked from her house to Longbourn to retrieve Mrs. Bennet’s soul after Mrs. Bennet died. Elizabeth now hoped that this had been the case and was the case for everyone.

  There was a lot Elizabeth did not know. There were many things she and Mary had never been able to figure out. Would the escort go to the place of death, or to the place where the body was laid out? They never did figure out why that little footbridge? Why had the portal to the other world appeared over a bridge?

  Elizabeth had never thought to ask exactly what time of the afternoon Mrs. Bennet had passed away before to help her consider when and where one’s escort appears. But if Mr. Darcy Senior was to be his son’s escort, they had died miles apart.

  She stood in the middle of that meadow, and could feel Colonel Fitzwilliam’s concerned eyes upon her as Elizabeth contemplated whether Mr. Darcy’s spirit waited at Netherfield, where he had been laid out so handsomely in that best drawing-room, or whether Mr. Darcy Senior wound his way up from the place where he had died to impart words of wisdom to his son here, in this meadow: the place where the son had died.

  She was torn. Elizabeth did not know if she should sit with her love in that room at Netherfield Hall, or if she should turn and walk the roads around these woods in an attempt to seek spirits.

  ***

  Elizabeth could sense his impatience; she was growing impatient herself with the waiting and not knowing. That uncertainty of waiting and wishing for thin shadowy figures to appear and confirm to her that Mr. Darcy was dead. Elizabeth would be faced with dealing with her grief then, though it would also give her a chance to say goodbye. As though to finish writing a letter, to fold it over and seal it, knowing it was a goodbye letter to a friend she would never see again. One who was moving far away.

  A pain welled up inside, her stomach and heart cramping as though constricted as the loss again hit her that Mr. Darcy was dead. His arms—warm, strong, and inspiring—were no longer there to hold her. No kisses were ever to delight her.

  The umbrella over her head kept the water, which leaked off of that ancient tree, from dripping down onto her bonnet and coat, and the heaviness of the mist obscured the view across the meadow. It was cold. Elizabeth shivered, impatient for activity, a sighting, after that bout of sadness and pain. Elizabeth knew she was being ridiculous; Darcy was not going to appear. She turned her head to look at her companion, who was stalwart and silent.

  Elizabeth thought she saw movement suddenly, though it was a day where she was so overwhelmed that she could not exactly trust the cacophony of emotions and senses inside her body. She saw two tall figures. If Elizabeth stared directly at them, it was as though she could not discern them, but if Elizabeth turned her head and looked out of the corner of her eye, she saw movement. Two figures. It was like the day of her mother’s passing when figures came and went from her eyesight. But in this case, she could perceive them only by looking indirectly at them. To look towards them made them disappear. Elizabet
h could not help twitching the umbrella back in her hands to afford herself a better prospect.

  The colonel noticed and glanced over. “Are you ready to go?” he asked.

  Elizabeth did not answer but took a step forward. A small gust came and blew against them. It seemed to clear the mist a little, though it produced a downpour of heavy droplets from the branches above them which thundered on top of the umbrellas. Two tall figures shrouded in gray were moving along one side of the meadow just underneath the tree-line. One was taller than the other, but they both appeared dressed or created entirely in shades of gray or black. There seemed to be no color about these two figures. They were thin shadows, but Elizabeth could see them now when she looked at them directly.

  Tears began to leak down her cheeks because it was Mr. Darcy; there was no mistaking him.

  Her umbrella slide to rest on her shoulder, and Elizabeth took two or three more steps forward as her eyes focused on those shadowy figures that passed in her sight-line from one edge to the other, became fuzzy again, and disappeared.

  “Miss Bennet! Miss Bennet! What is it?” Colonel Fitzwilliam called her back to this world. Back to the consciousness of the present reality, the living world, though Elizabeth shook her head as she did not wish to hear the colonel’s voice. Elizabeth wanted to be with Darcy and his father in the other world— in that other plane. She pulled the umbrella down off of her shoulder and fumbled to shut it.

  “Are you ready to go?” Fitzwilliam repeated.

  “No!” Elizabeth turned to look at him. “Didn’t you see them? Did you SEE them?” she cried emphasizing that word, that verb, that action. How could he not have? Elizabeth was furious. Again her emotions were under no control whatsoever, and her feelings flared up intensely. Incensed that he had not seen his cousin and his uncle walk right in front of them, perhaps six or seven yards away, just at the edge of the tree-line.

  “See who, Miss Bennet? Is Mr. Bingley here? Is it someone else?” Fitzwilliam wondered if there were gawkers, people from the village who had heard about the duel and had come to see where it had taken place, come to pick over the site for any souvenirs.

  “Darcy,” Elizabeth answered quietly, having gone from one extreme to the other. “Darcy. Didn’t you see? Darcy.”

  Fitzwilliam was quite worried then. Her behavior made no sense. A woman would never wish to see a body, to put it crudely, and then to wish to know where a duel had taken place, and now this? Elizabeth had obviously noticed some undetermined thing to say that she had seen Darcy. Fitzwilliam wondered if he needed to carry her bodily from the meadow to return her to her family—and could he do such a thing? Pick Miss Bennet up in his arms to take her to Netherfield and that waiting carriage? They had walked to the meadow—it would be a long way for him to wrestle her back to Netherfield if Elizabeth was unwilling to go.

  “I know you will not believe me,” Elizabeth wailed. “But I have seen him and his father just now. And we need to go.”

  “Yes! Let us go!” Fitzwilliam agreed, relieved that she wished to return to Netherfield, excited to be moving again, but Elizabeth started off, moving not towards the Hall, but away from it. “Miss Bennet,” he shouted. “That is the wrong direction!”

  “No,” Elizabeth insisted. “They’re returning to Langley.”

  Fitzwilliam panicked. It was all he could feel just then. He had experienced that before—he admitted to himself—on battlefields when there was that chaos around them, with no sense of what to do, being overwhelmed, with no sense as to whether the battle was going their way and with the feeling that they might all perish. Maurice Fitzwilliam wasn’t sure if he liked this woman right now who brought to light such feelings inside him that he felt so panicked.

  Fitzwilliam didn’t know what to think or to do. He turned to look at her fully. “Miss Bennet, who did you see?”

  “Darcy and his father,” was her answer.

  He shook his head though his heart was beating so hard Maurice thought he could feel the pulse in his wrists and up in his temples so that the shaking of his head caused instant pain.

  “Miss Bennet, I am a man who has been to war,” Fitzwilliam spoke, looking at Elizabeth to ensure he captured her eyes because hers had been moving about, not looking at him, looking away at that fantastical image which she claimed to have found there.

  He continued. “I have seen death. I have seen too much death. Death is the end. Light leaves a man’s eyes, and he is no more. He does not walk again, Miss Bennet. You are seeing shadows under the trees.” Fitzwilliam blew out a breath, thought to reach out a consoling hand, but did not. “I can understand your grief. I have seen grief consume people who are not willing to accept that that light has gone from a loved one.” He realized then how much she loved his cousin and that she would never love another. Elizabeth Bennet would be the type who would wear widow’s weeds the rest of her life and never choose to marry.

  “But Fitzwilliam Darcy is dead,” the colonel said stating each word carefully.

  “I know,” Elizabeth agreed. “But the dead have a journey when they’re gone.” Fitzwilliam had not noticed the tears which had been swimming in Elizabeth’s eyes. They started to fall at a rapid pace then, and he wanted to pull her in his arms so that they would stop. “I know he’s gone. If I have seen him with his father, I know he’s gone! His father is here to escort him on the journey to the next world that we all must take. You must understand, Colonel Fitzwilliam. I have seen this before with my mother. You have to believe me; I am not some silly, hysterical woman. I am a rational creature, and while this does not make sense to you... Oh! To you, I am sure death is black and white. But have you never thought about what there is for us beyond death? And what happens when we die?”

  “Miss Bennet, I am a soldier!” Fitzwilliam cried. “I have done everything I possibly can to remain in this world. I have done everything I can to prevent myself from leaving it. I do not contemplate; I have never contemplated the next. For all that they say soldiers in battle consider god or heaven, I cannot say that I have ever done any such thing. I have only thought of the moment and survival.” Fitzwilliam was desperate. He did not understand her, this creature who would speak of topics a soldier never wished to think about. His parents were living; he had never lost a sibling, and as much as Fitzwilliam had faced death in battle, he had not suffered the death of a loved one.

  Fitzwilliam reached out to grab her by the upper arm. It was brutally done. “Miss Bennet,” his hand on her was ruthless. “You must let him go! He is dead!” Fitzwilliam knew he was being cruel, both mentally and physically. “He is dead!” Elizabeth had been weeping endless tears, but they now fell even more fiercely.

  “I know he is dead! I have seen his spirit, his soul! I have seen him with his father. But I need to speak to him one last time!” Elizabeth ripped her arm from his clutches and went racing across the meadow. The umbrella slipped from her grip as though she could not be burdened with extra baggage as Elizabeth ran away from Fitzwilliam.

  The colonel attempted to swallow, though his mouth was so dry that there was no spit on his tongue to coat his throat as he watched Miss Bennet sprint away from him. He flung the umbrella down off of his shoulder, collapsed it, and moved to follow her. Angry, grieved, and afraid. Fitzwilliam was very much afraid of this woman who was going to make him face his mortality; he was scared of dying. Like any good soldier, you didn’t fear death—you had to always think you’d survive—yet fearing death is what kept you alive. It was contradictory, yes. You took steps to prevent it, and yet Fitzwilliam felt like Elizabeth was pulling him towards death, just now, in that gray meadow towards some unknown but horrific destination.

  Miss Bennet hinted that she had seen his cousin and his uncle as if they were ghosts--as if Uncle Darcy had come in some capacity to speak to or fetch his cousin. Fitzwilliam did not wish to know about that or to witness it himself. But Elizabeth Bennet was drawing him away from what Fitzwilliam knew to a place he could not fathom and which he
did not wish to know of.

  He felt vulnerable.

  It was dark once he passed into that line of trees, only a little light came through that gray covering of clouds when Fitzwilliam saw a figure in amber. Elizabeth had stopped running but was moving with purpose, on a south-west trajectory to some destination. His longer legs carried him on, and he caught up with her.

  “Your uncle, where exactly in Hertfordshire did he die? You said it was an attack of the heart?” inquired Elizabeth.

  “I don’t know exactly,” Fitzwilliam admitted. “I know that it was beside the Grand Junction Canal. I believe they took him to a small farmhouse nearby, and Uncle Darcy passed away there. Then they took him back to Langley Hall.”

  “I don’t know,” Elizabeth began, keeping up her determined pace, “I don’t know the exact ins and outs of how this all works, you see.”

  “How all what works?” he prompted.

  “If someone dies, then an escort comes for them. Someone they have known in their lifetime comes to their place of death to impart something, some words…of wisdom.”

  “What are these words?” Fitzwilliam asked.

  “I believe it is different for every person; otherwise, it would not make sense for a loved one to make that journey.” Elizabeth was moving with assurance.

  “And you’ve seen Darcy?” Fitzwilliam asked, though he didn’t want to ask that question. Such an idea was beyond comprehension.

  “Yes, he slipped away again. It is difficult here as there’s no path to follow. And I don’t know where the portal might be,” explained Elizabeth.

  “Portal?” he was confused.

  “There’s a portal, you see, colonel.” Elizabeth stopped and turned to look him directly in his eyes. “I know you think I’m mad, but I’m not. There’s a portal to another world, the next world, to Purgatory, which appears when a soul is to pass over. But a living person can pass through it too, if she is quick enough.”