by Anne Morris
“Yes. Though he has an incredible post-life journey to make from Belgium,” remarked Darcy.
That thought made them clutch each other tightly for the remainder of their journey to Langley.
***
Langley’s windows were draped in black crepe. A black wreath decorated the door, and the mood was appropriately somber as they were shown up to the main drawing-room. Lady Stacia had come to stay at Langley with the Earl and Countess (for the new Earl had married just before the old Earl’s passing) when Colonel Fitzwilliam had left for Belgium. The Dowager Countess was there, as well as Lady Emma. Emma had not married and shared the dowager house with her mother.
“Elizabeth!” said her old friend to her as Mrs. Darcy was enveloped in a hug—as much as Lady Emma Fitzwilliam was able to hug Elizabeth’s frame.
“I am grieved,” responded Elizabeth. “You must be broken-hearted.” She put an arm around Lady Emma as they moved to find a sofa.
“I never thought such an…outcome…was possible for Maurice,” whispered Lady Emma, who laid her head on Elizabeth’s arm. “He was ever the soldier. And yet, Maurice had changed in the past year or two. He was less hard around the edges.” Elizabeth thought her friend was fighting tears and rubbed her back gently.
“I think meeting you was one of the best things for him,” continued Emma. “Maurice had faults, but you inspired him that summer to correct himself.” Lady Emma sat up to look at Elizabeth. “Did you know, I was not very fond of you after you married Darcy? I warned you about him and everything!” Her head was laid back on Elizabeth’s shoulder. “I so wanted you to marry Maurice.”
“But you forgave me,” said Elizabeth. “We have been almost like sisters, these past years, as Darcy and Maurice were as close as brothers.”
“Yes we have,” answered Lady Emma, who pulled closer.
“And we have Lady Stacia to enfold in our arms,” remarked Elizabeth, whose sympathetic eyes gazed at the new mother, who stood pale and delicate, speaking to a Fitzwilliam cousin. “She has experienced one of the happiest days of her life when her son was born and also the depths of despair when news of Waterloo came. You and I must be pillars of support for her.”
The baby in Elizabeth’s belly kicked out against Emma’s form lying against him. “Oh!” Emma cried. “Oh! I felt the baby move,” Lady Emma said as she sat up, looking from Elizabeth’s belly up to her eyes.
“He does that a great deal of the time. My sleep is often affected,” smiled Elizabeth, who by instinct rubbed where the baby had kicked.
“I think I should like to have a child of my own,” revealed Lady Emma, who placed her hand on Elizabeth’s belly. “I have not considered marriage, as you know. But perhaps I should. I should like a child.”
“Let us go speak to Lady Stacia,” said Elizabeth, who scooted herself off of the sofa.
Lady Stacia was surrounded by Fitzwilliam relations, all offering her their condolences. Stacia was a tale, pale-haired woman, curvaceous after having given birth but ten days before. Typically, a new mother would be confined to her chambers. These circumstances were unusual. The new mother stood conversing with her husband’s relatives, listening to kind words from others who shared her loss.
Lady Stacia brightened a little at seeing Elizabeth with her round belly, though there was also a little mixture of pain on her face as they spoke.
“Stacia,” whispered Elizabeth. “Show me your son.”
What new mother does not wish to have people admire their offspring? Lady Stacia led Elizabeth and Lady Emma upstairs to her chambers. Stacia had been unwilling to move her son to the nursery and kept him with her in her rooms.
A nursemaid sat next to the cradle, and Stacia’s entire attitude changed as she moved eagerly towards it, leaning down to admire her baby. Elizabeth stood at the end and gazed at that tiniest human sleeping there. Her heart flipped; the babe in her belly leapt in concert.
“I believe I see Fitzwilliam in him,” avowed Elizabeth as she admired the petite features.
“I think he is exactly alike,” declared Lady Stacia, her eyes never leaving her son.
“The Countess said you have named him for Fitzwilliam?” Elizabeth asked.
“Yes, exactly named. I have given him his full name: Maurice Alexander Wilding Fitzwilliam,” answered his mother.
“Wilding?” prompted Elizabeth.
“That was Mamma’s surname, before she married,” explained Lady Emma.
“You do re-use names in your family,” Elizabeth admonished gently, “don’t you?” Lady Emma laughed softly, though Lady Stacia did not join in.
A spark came to life inside Elizabeth as she gazed in admiration at that tiny newborn baby. Exactly named, Elizabeth thought. She was hard-pressed not to run back to Darcy to pull him away from their cousins to speak of her discovery.
When they were finally alone, Elizabeth mentioned her visit to see Fitzwilliam’s son, and of his being named exactly for his father. Darcy’s eyes glowed with the same light of discovery which hers had held.
“Perhaps,” Elizabeth whispered. “You are still to escort a Maurice Fitzwilliam?”
“Perhaps I am,” Darcy replied. “But the son, not the father.”
EPILOGUE
6 July 1821, Ramsgate
Mary Bennet noticed a letter by her seat as she walked into the breakfast room; She also noticed that Charlotte Lucas was reading her own letter. Mrs. E. was probably going to have a tray in her room, particularly as Miss Lucas and Mrs. Eyers had been out to an evening of cards the night before. Mrs. E. did not rise quickly after evenings out. Mary had not attended the card party but had stayed home and to work on her notes.
She gathered items for her breakfast, a cup of tea, and went to sit next to Charlotte.
“I see Eliza has written,” remarked Charlotte as she looked up.
Mary unsealed the letter to see a short note inside and glanced at the opening lines. “They’ve decided to name the new baby Hugo,” she announced.
“Hugo?” questioned Charlotte.
“He was one of my grandfathers,” explained Mary.
“One more boy and they will run out of names if they’ve already used your father’s and both grandfather’s now,” remarked Charlotte.
“Yes, but I wonder about Darcy’s family?” said Mary. “And I cannot account for where they got Benjamin.”
“We do not always need to christen a child for a relative,” suggested Charlotte.
“No. Sophia is her own little self,” observed Mary. Her eyes moved back to the letter, but there was not much more to it. It was a short one as letters from Pemberley often were these days. “Who is your letter from?” Mary asked.
“Mamma,” answered Charlotte.
Charlotte had always been plain, but over the years her features had softened as she aged, her cheeks becoming a little jowly, her eyes a little beadier, though Charlotte Lucas was still the same practical person she had always been. Charlotte had never been so fortunate as to have a man ask her to marry him.
Back in the year twelve, at the time when Jane and Elizabeth had become engaged (when their Cousin Collins had come to visit), Charlotte admitted that Mr. Collins had paid her a great deal of attention, particularly after Mr. Bennet had thrown him out of the house. For Mr. Collins had gone to stay at Lucas Lodge for a day or two before he returned to Kent.
But his eyes, like men’s eyes often do, had turned from a plain face to a prettier one: Charlotte’s younger sister, Maria. Sir William had not tolerated that change in sentiment. Besides, Mr. Collins’ fortnight leave from his patroness had come to an end, and Collins was required to return home. Charlotte never had any other gentleman pay her any attention after that.
“What does Lady Lucas have to say?” asked Mary as she sipped her tea and nibbled at her breakfast.
“It has been rather rainy. She discusses the weather a great deal, and many of her hens have been off laying.” There was a pause as Charlotte continued to read. “Oh! Mar
ia’s husband has taken ill again.”
“Really?” Mary had been listening with half a mind. Most of her thoughts were more on her notes.
“Yes,” continued Charlotte. “Mamma does not say what ails him this time. She only notes that he is ill again.” Pretty Maria Lucas had married a rich man. Mr. Shilton was more than twice her age, and his health was not the best.
“I am sorry to hear about Mr. Shilton,” remarked Mary. “I hope his health improves quickly.”
“I will tell Mamma of your concerns,” commented Charlotte as she continued to read.
Besides the wet summer weather and information about neighbors and chickens, the news from Meryton was mostly the same as it always was. But then Charlotte gasped, which made Mary look up at her again.
“Oh! There’s a post-script. It seems that rascal brother of yours ran away from his tutor and was discovered by Reverend Emerson in one of the oak trees in the graveyard, reading.”
“I am sure Jacob tries Mrs. Bennet’s patience dearly,” affirmed Mary. “I am sure my stepmother is glad Daniel has gone off to school, and there is only Jacob at Longbourn to look after now. I suppose the new vicar was involved if he was found in the graveyard. If it had been Reverend White, he would have caned him.”
“Reverend Emerson seems more kind-hearted when it comes to understanding the antics of young boys,” replied Charlotte.
“I thought I should get some exercise today and walk along the seashore,” said Mary, changing the subject. “Would you care to join me?”
“No,” answered Charlotte who folded her letter. Charlotte had become more languid over the years, her thin frame having filled out over the past decade.
Their friendship had been an interesting one; the two sisters left unmarried in their respective families. They had joined together to form a household many years back when it became apparent that neither was to receive an offer of marriage. They pooled their money to set up a small establishment. Sir William provided Charlotte a small allowance, and there had been a legacy when he passed away. Mr. Bennet presented Mary with her share of the money set aside for his daughters’ dowries, and like Charlotte, Mary received some additional money when Mr. Bennet died.
They had merely wished, with their choice of living, to not be at the mercy of their families. Charlotte to not live with one of her brothers. Mary would otherwise be forced to live with one of her married sisters, or with her stepmother and young brother at Longbourn. The two spinsters took a small set of lodgings in Meryton and lived frugally. But then Jane had a difficult time after the birth of her third daughter, and Elizabeth suggested Mrs. Eyers. Mrs. Eyers was not a nurse, but the older lady was a mother, and this was a situation where one was warranted (after three daughters and a difficult birth).
Mary had gone as well. She was often called to her sisters’ sides after they gave birth, and became acquainted with Mrs. Eyers. The older lady heard about her plan with Miss Lucas and became part of their arrangement. At first, it was probably because Mrs. Eyers had ideas of attempting to marry them off, but that was given over, after a time, and the three of them settled down living together in contentment.
Having Mrs. Eyers as part of their little household meant they could live farther afield. Before she came, Mary and Charlotte had lodgings within visiting distance of both of their families, and they supposed that they would eke out their lives in Meryton. But with a married woman in their party, they were allowed to travel. It was more expensive, but escaping the confines of Meryton was a pleasant change.
At first, they went to stay with Mrs. Eyers in Weymouth for an extended period before they moved to Wells in Somerset for a year. Then they decided to see Bath and took lodgings there. Mary was still called on to frequently visit one or other of her sisters (trips her wealthier sisters paid for). Sometimes Mary felt it unfair of Elizabeth to be forever giving birth (Jane only had the four daughters) that she was in Derbyshire so often. But recently, the trio had moved across the country to live by the sea, in Ramsgate.
***
Mary called their maid and asked for her coat and bonnet, and made ready for a long and contemplative walk by the sea. She was pleased with all of her little experiments about the other world. Mary had been correct that there was something required—empathy was needed to be able to ascertain those gateways to the next world. Elizabeth was now occupied with her husband and her rather large brood of children, happy and contented—but Mary needed an occupation. For her, that interest begun in grief had carried on now for a decade.
It had been a theoretical one for a while until Mary had been visiting Pemberley after Frances’ birth. She and Elizabeth and that new babe had been together all day when Lizzy shared her adventures of storming Purgatory to reclaim Mr. Darcy. It sparked something in Mary, particularly the idea that not everybody serves time (either as in jail or as in waiting in a room), before moving on to Heaven. Some people’s behavior condemns them to an atrocious end (those images of Hell artists often like to paint). But others do not need to serve time at all, like Lady Anne’s fate, and could go straight to Heaven.
Mary was extremely thankful that Elizabeth had been so bold as to retrieve Mr. Darcy’s soul. Elizabeth was undoubtedly the happiest of her sisters. To date, Jane had four daughters and no son, a point Mr. Bingley was perhaps not unhappy with, but one Bingley grumbled good-naturedly about as he compared his own family with the one he had grown up with: five daughters appearing before Mr. Bingley made his appearance.
They did not know much about Lydia: she had eloped with an enlisted man. Her husband had been sent overseas; Lydia never wrote. Catherine had married a clerk in Uncle Phillips’ office. They quarreled. Kitty often took the children to visit her other sisters to escape her unhappy home.
But Mary began to wonder if she could visit the other world without having a reason to do so. Without having a sister to guide her, or a parent, or even a loved one she needed to pass over to visit; Mary wanted to know about the next world: to experience it.
So when Mrs. Blount, a neighbor died, Mary went walking. Elizabeth had filled in one piece of knowledge: how do the gateways appear? Portals appeared over bridges and waterways. Mary discovered that fact was true as she found a gateway not far from Mrs. Blount’s house. Mary made a tentative trial to the other world, mere minutes, over and back again.
So it went. She became a scientist and began a series of experiments of observation, all of which were written in great detail in her notebooks. When Sir William Lucas died, Mary was able to observe an escort for the first time. And when her own father passed away, Mary had her personal encounter, brief, but an encounter like Elizabeth had had with their mother, in that other world.
***
Elizabeth was happy and busy with her brood of children, and Mary did not bother Lizzy with her experiments. But at each of the places where Mary, Charlotte, and Mrs. Eyers lived, Mary ventured into that other realm seeking to document what she could of the world that was to come, the one after death.
Sometimes, Mary went and didn’t see a single soul; soul as in spirit. Not in that throw-away manner one makes in referring to another person who is, in fact, still living. Mary saw enough spirits to confirm and document what she and Elizabeth had seen and reported: after death, someone known to you comes to escort your spirit while they share information, and in doing so, they finish serving their penance and can pass on to Heaven.
Three times Mary suffered the terror of witnessing a hellhound running its prey to ground. After the first time, Mary wished never to experience it again; she also returned after the first encounter and realized that a lock of her hair had turned white, overnight. Charlotte commented on it, but Mary merely remarked that Charlotte was getting older, perhaps she had not noticed before? They had both taken to covering their hair. Charlotte had also begun to wear spectacles, so doubted herself enough that she did not comment again.
Mary saw the hellhound and that murky void twice more, both times as horrific as th
e first; both times as bone-shaking and unsettling and as unnatural an abomination as the first experience.
Mary often referenced the texts which she had taken after her father had passed away. She had asked Mrs. Bennet for permission, and her stepmother gave it, not minding that Mary took a half dozen books out of sentiment for her departed father. Mrs. Bennet did not think Jacob would want them; her son could surely replace them or purchase any books he wished. Longbourn had done well in the years between their marriage and Mr. Bennet’s death and would do well enough for Jacob Bennet when he reached his majority and inherited Longbourn.
The one thing Mary wished for, more than anything, was to share the knowledge that she was gathering. Mary lived in a world where knowledge garnered by women was not valued. She considered that few would believe her. Mary knew Elizabeth would support her, but again, Lizzy had seven children; she would very likely have more. Her focus was elsewhere.
The utmost that Mary hoped for was enlisting the ear of one of her nephews. At the very least, she might slip her notebooks into the Pemberley Library on some future day that they might be discovered generations down the road. Someone might rediscover and share them in fifty or a hundred years’ time. Mary had high hopes for Elizabeth’s second son, Frederick. He was a curious boy, and when he was older, perhaps she might be able to take him aside and explain.
Mary set out for her walk along the seashore. Ramsgate provided her with a unique opportunity. She had enjoyed Weymouth, but Mary had not been as dedicated to her observations when she and Charlotte had been staying there with Mrs. Eyers. But Mary had formulated some new theories on the afterlife, ones which had to do with souls who died far afield from where they lived.
There were so many men who had been sent overseas to fight and never returned. Their bodies lay buried on the Iberian Peninsula, or on the Continent (or those who had gone to fight in the Americas, let alone considering those on the Indian continent). But if gateways appeared over rivers and streams (a fact Mary had scientifically proven), were spirits able to cross large bodies of water? A river was small enough because a bridge could span it, but was The Channel too large? Were boats an impossibility? Could spirits navigate the seas on boats?