by Anne Morris
Yes, Miss Bennet, I do think you are mad, Fitzwilliam thought looking at her, even though her voice and her eyes spoke of her sincerity, of her clarity of mind, of her devotion to his cousin. But Elizabeth Bennet held his gaze and did not turn away, waiting for a reply. “I take it you’ve seen this before?”
“When my mother died, just after, I saw her spirit. And I saw my grandmother come to get her.” She cried out suddenly, oddly, or rather gasped, taking in a little breath of air. It sounded sweet and distracted. Elizabeth did not look away but turned her head in an unusual manner as though looking out of the corner of her eye; then Elizabeth moved away at a quick pace, leaving Fitzwilliam and their conversation behind.
He followed again. Fitzwilliam had this sense that she was on the hunt, assured of her prey, though he did not see anything. Because of the clouds and the tree covering, the darkness was rather extreme. It was also damp, and Elizabeth had thrown away her umbrella. Fitzwilliam worried that she was getting quite wet as whenever a gust of wind came, drops rained down on them. He thought then how much better men’s clothing was for harsh weather than women’s.
Elizabeth suddenly sprinted as though closing in for the kill, though Fitzwilliam still had not seen anything, or at least he did not notice any figures before them. The terrain changed slightly as the scrubby bushes at their feet thinned, and the branches in his line of sight cleared. Fitzwilliam realized that there was the hint of a thin, sparse path in front of them as he followed her.
He was actually at a juncture, a T, as there was a cross-path that cut through the woods there (probably used by poachers), but the more worn branch lead them south-east, and Fitzwilliam moved again, following Elizabeth Bennet.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
The river! thought Elizabeth. They are heading towards the River Gade. Those two shadowy figures which her eyes had picked out while Elizabeth had been explaining about the other world to Colonel Fitzwilliam were moving away. She sprinted to catch them. They had maneuvered themselves onto some faint, ancient, and well-used path through these woods. It was difficult to gauge how far away they were from the river. Elizabeth knew it was over three miles from Meryton, but there was not a direct route to it as two estates lay in-between.
But as Elizabeth followed Darcy and his father, she was not yet able to bear the fact that she was seeing such a sight. Elizabeth thought about the portal. If they were headed towards the river, perhaps the gateway was there? Perhaps portals appeared over rivers, though she had no idea or concept why. That would be speculation for another day and time. Elizabeth carried on, and as she could not bear to consider reaching out to them, she merely followed those figures. On the one hand, Elizabeth yearned to engage with them, but she also wished they were not there, that they were not figures she could see walking with determined purpose down the pathway.
Elizabeth kept up her pace, warmed on that rather bleak autumn day; her heartbeat thrummed everywhere in her body as if to mock and taunt her over her loss as Elizabeth watched, in particular, the taller figure in front of her. Mr. Darcy was dead. He would pass through a portal to the afterlife, yes, but then she could speak to him. Elizabeth knew that she could not talk to him on this side, but she also understood that she would be parted from him forever.
Perhaps she might have cried at such a thought, but Elizabeth didn’t have the energy to do so, her focus was on crossing whatever bridge awaited her, passing through the opening that lay over it, and moving, once again, into that other world. Colonel Fitzwilliam was beside her as the landscape changed, and as the trees around them thinned. Elizabeth thought this path might be the dividing line between two estates as well as a footpath for those who needed such. It ended near a small habitation. There were cottages in a small grouping, tenant houses looking worn but happy. Smoke plumed from one chimney, but no one was outside any of them as Elizabeth and Colonel Fitzwilliam passed by, walking in a less-enclosed area.
The figures she was following vanished in the brighter light, but Elizabeth continued to follow the path as it jagged around to one side. There was a public-house there, a few more cottages, then the road turned again and dimmed to become a small trail, becoming overgrown with high hedges and trees, though they seemed to have left the woods behind.
It occurred to Elizabeth that she was possibly trespassing on someone else’s estate. They had passed from the Netherfield estate to the Elmwood estate (a small one tucked in on one side next to Mr. Goulding’s estate on the other). The small dirt footpaths in the woods were probably boundary markers of a sort. There had never been any reason for her to visit tenant cottages on other gentleman’s estate, so Elizabeth had never been on this side of Meryton.
The landscape changed again. The trees dominated them overhead as the path wandered underneath their cover, but these were a different type, and Elizabeth felt that they were, at last, approaching the water.
“Miss Bennet?” called her companion.
“Colonel, can you see him?” she asked and pointed towards the two dark figures which were some ways ahead. The trees here were taller and straighter than the scrubby and broad oaks which had enveloped them before; those had been dark and menacing and had splattered them with rain. These trees allowed light to come in from the sides, even though they provided a canopy overhead, and the two shadowy figures looked like moving trees as tall and straight and dark as the forest around them.
Colonel Fitzwilliam stiffened; his shoulders pulled back as his elbows were thrown out almost as if he were steadying himself as though he felt faint or about to fall. Fitzwilliam stopped moving, but then slapped one hand against his thigh as he started walking again, his footsteps loud.
“Miss Bennet…is that?” the colonel called to her, though his eyes were staring straight ahead of him at those tall, dark figures.
“Yes, Colonel. It is as I asserted, Mr. Darcy and his father,” answered Elizabeth.
“But, Darcy is dead,” Fitzwilliam declared, and out of the corner of her eye, Elizabeth could see him shake his head as he continued, “Darcy is dead. Uncle has been gone these many years.”
“But their spirits are there before us,” Elizabeth asserted, “they are moving towards that other world. I do not wish to miss where they are going as I now believe they must cross the river in order to obtain it—to cross through the gateway to the other land.”
“I…I don’t believe what I am seeing,” Fitzwilliam declared. “I have seen much in my lifetime. I cannot believe what is before me, however.” His footsteps were uneven, and the colonel stumbled a little as he walked beside her; his worldview was reeling as Fitzwilliam took in those figures which seemed to have appeared out of thin air before him. It made no sense that dead men could walk again. He had seen many dead men, seen parts of dead men, seen blood and trials that the beautiful, innocent, forthright, and stoic woman beside him could not even fathom.
And yet, Miss Bennet was teaching him, showing him something Fitzwilliam and so few men apparently never perceived: dead men do walk. That pain inside intensified, and Fitzwilliam thought it more significant than any physical wound he had ever received. The pain and guilt of Darcy’s death were not enough; his view of death was being challenged. Fitzwilliam felt like a savage, wanting to roar and tear at his clothes just then, but he had the responsibility of the woman beside him.
Fitzwilliam tripped on a small root, righted himself, and kept going.
In that peculiar grove of trees surrounding them, the air smelled different. There was a slight sense of looking down a tunnel as he gazed down the tra]il. There was a hitch at the end where it turned and glimmered. Fitzwilliam thought that must be the river. Miss Bennet had mentioned a river and a portal which was beyond any sense or concept of a reality Fitzwilliam knew—of there being a portal or a gateway to an entirely different world. Elizabeth mentioned a life beyond death, something he could not comprehend because Fitzwilliam had always refused to embrace anything outside of the living word. That’s the way a soldier thought.
As they moved, Elizabeth on sure-footed feet, and Fitzwilliam on legs which felt as though they might give way at any moment, he felt like a man (a boy really), faced with his first battle. They approached the bend, and Fitzwilliam saw a bridge—they were at the river.
“The portal,” Elizabeth spoke, breaking the silence which had risen between them. She had nothing more to say, would not defend or explain or chastise him, for which he was thankful. But Fitzwilliam could see that there appeared to be a doorway above the bridge. It was a wooden bridge, ancient-looking, and one for pedestrians only (perhaps it would suffer a small push-cart), and the gateway above it was out of place.
The clouds were thinning a little, and the banks of the river were not so overgrown with vegetation that the bridge was covered in any way. Fitzwilliam saw those two shadowy figures dim as the light brightened due to the lack of cover. As soon as they passed through the portal, they disappeared.
“Where did they go? Will we have time to get through?” Fitzwilliam asked, quickening his pace.
“We have time,” Elizabeth assured him. But she matched his pace as they walked that final length towards the river. Miss Bennet stopped on the east side of the river and gazed for a moment at that portal. It was a doorway, a shimmering, translucent and beckoning doorway, and yet the colonel thought it frightening as well. Fitzwilliam thought that his companion must feel otherwise as Elizabeth gathered her skirts and turned to him.
She asked, “are you ready?”
“Pardon?” he replied and shook his head. Fitzwilliam did not quite understand her.
“I am crossing over. I don’t believe I have explained to you what it’s like through the portal. It’s a different world. It’s not as if visiting another town, colonel. It’s…cold and dark and unreal and dead. But I am determined. It does not mean you need to come,” Elizabeth assured him.
A spark of warmth lit in him that Elizabeth would care enough for him to eschew his company and cross over alone. There was a spark that Fitzwilliam did not need to go because he admitted to his fear of stepping through that doorway to discover whatever was beyond, but Fitzwilliam knew he would follow.
“I will come. I will carry on with this venture, Miss Bennet,” Fitzwilliam asserted.
“Very well,” Elizabeth answered and stepped forward purposefully, crossing over those timbers which creaked beneath her feet through a doorway which should not be there and disappeared from sight. Fitzwilliam followed.
***
It was like walking from a cozy room where a fire blazed in a hearth, into a day that deceived with such a chill that it was a physical blow to him, hitting Fitzwilliam in the face instantly as soon as he passed into it. There was light overhead, but it was different as though the sun was filtered somehow, but not by tree branches overhead. It was as though there were fabric or a paper coated with some chemical which changed its color. The bank on this side of the river had less foliage; there was only the occasional tree. But Elizabeth Bennet was there in her amber coat.
She waited for him. Her hands clasped her elbows, an indication, Fitzwilliam thought, that she was cold. “It is another world, is it not?”
“It is the same,” Fitzwilliam asserted, looking around, trying to assure himself that it was not different. But he realized that there was only old and ancient growth here. Trees, hedges, and bushes yes, but no grass underfoot, no new growth, none of those symbols of life which return every spring. Symbols that assure human beings that life continues on: there were only ancient things which stood the test of time on this side in the cold and dimmer light of this other world.
“We need to keep moving so we don’t lose them. I need to speak to Darcy,” Elizabeth announced.
Darcy and his uncle had out-stripped them and were at least a half mile ahead, walking along the bank of the river. Fitzwilliam did not think that the conversation he and Elizabeth just had would have taken so long that those two figures could have made it so far, but as he watched, it seemed they set quite a pace.
Fitzwilliam did not know the etiquette of any of this, but he offered her his arm when before she had been leading him. Elizabeth took it, and they moved to follow those gray and black figures. The pair were sharper here on this side of the river, the west side, now that Fitzwilliam and Elizabeth were through the portal. The dark pair looked like they belonged here; they were meant to be there. Fitzwilliam wondered if he and Elizabeth looked different to others. Then Fitzwilliam wondered if they would encounter any others besides Darcy and his uncle. He had so many unanswered questions in his head. This place was not one Fitzwilliam had ever found in a map book, not a place whose history he had ever read about when he had been up at school.
She was the expert here; Elizabeth had explained that she had been confronted by this before. She had seen her mother the day her mother had passed away, and been here, to the afterlife. Was Elizabeth Bennet sensitive in some way that she was open to such an experience? For all of his experiences of death, Fitzwilliam had never encountered or heard of something like this. He had never heard tell of any man of his acquaintance claiming that he had seen dead men walking.
Once or twice there had been tales of ghosts or spirits shared around campfires, mostly told by retainers, camp followers, or foreigners—tales which had been scoffed at by the colonel. Tales by underlinings, the weak. But perhaps there was something about that, people who were more vulnerable, more open to seeing this other world, who were able to consider it as possible.
They moved at what Fitzwilliam thought was a decent pace, but it seemed that the two of them never closed the distance on those two figures ahead of them. Breathing was difficult, the cold air hurt with every inhalation, and after a short distance—and a silent mile—he realized how winded he felt.
Fitzwilliam was a soldier who had been able to mark twenty miles in severe weather, so he was surprised to be winded after the first mile. He looked down at his companion. Elizabeth too seemed to be suffering because of the atmosphere and the temperature—because they were not meant to be there at all. The living were not supposed to be in this place.
“Are we meant to catch up with them and then return home Miss Bennet?” Fitzwilliam asked finally.
“I don’t know Colonel Fitzwilliam,” Elizabeth answered. “I get the sense that we may need to follow them to the place of your uncle’s death. We could try calling to them, but I am not sure if they would stop their journey to speak to us.”
“Did you speak to your mother?” Fitzwilliam asked.
“I did,” she replied.
Fitzwilliam waited, thinking that Elizabeth would enlighten him about that encounter, but perhaps it had been a difficult encounter, so she did not elaborate.
“When were you able to speak to your mother?” he prompted.
“It was after they reached their destination. Whatever words or message my grandmother had to impart to my mother were given and then Grandmamma went on.”
“Where did your grandmother go?” Fitzwilliam asked.
“I don’t know,” Elizabeth stated. “I believe she went to Heaven.”
He thought there was more there. “But after your grandmother was gone, then your mother spoke to you?”
“Yes. I walked back with her as she returned to Longbourn. My mother explained that she now had to wait for her turn to be an…escort…before Mamma then moved on…to Heaven, I am assuming, to Heaven.” Fitzwilliam’s mind reeled with all of these ideas of journeys yet to come even when death takes us.
But speaking added to their fatigue. They fell silent as they walked, following the bank of that river and watching as those shadowy figures in front of them out-stripped them. They showed no signs of fatigue. That ghostly pair were not impaired by cold and bothered by the light.
Here it was perpetually twilight, perpetually drifting between day and night. Neither one nor the other. It was uncomfortable. It was disconcerting. It made one wish to be able to turn on a lamp, but there were no lamps to be had, no
torches available to them. Fitzwilliam had no flint in his pocket to light timber, no hatchet to cut a branch from one of those ancient trees. He had the sense that even should he have had flint, a fire would not catch. The only fiery thing there was the amber-colored coat of Elizabeth.
But it was cold, just above freezing, though it was not as if there was any moisture in the air. There was no ice formed anywhere; it was an odd, dry, dead cold. The plume of their breaths was almost welcome, a sign of their status as living beings. They trudged on. Fitzwilliam felt the hand clutching his arm, at first it held him tightly, but Elizabeth stumbled once, and the grip weakened as though she could not keep that hold on his arm. Elizabeth was tiring.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Elizabeth was worn down with exhaustion and the cold. It seeped into her clothes. She had not worn ones suitable for a frigid winter’s day. Her pelisse was not sufficient covering to keep her warm, though she had gloves and a bonnet. But she wished for a warm shawl to cover her shoulders as well as provide additional warmth. She had, at least, taken the time to tie on boots.
Elizabeth tugged at the colonel’s arm. “I need to rest.” Despite that void of water which they walked beside, there was no real way of quenching the thirst which had harassed her almost since she had crossed over. It was a sensation Elizabeth did not recall experiencing on her previous trip to this world. It had been mystifying and new that last visit. Perhaps she had known it was to be a shorter trip. Now Elizabeth was faced with miles ahead to tread.
The colonel stopped walking and looked at her. His breathing appeared just as labored as hers. Colonel Fitzwilliam seemed to welcome the respite just as much as she did.