“Colonel Fitzwilliam, the staff wanted to see you off as you go to serve the king in defense of the country. We wanted you to know that you have done good service here at Rosings and Hunsford and that we all shall be praying for your safe return.”
A murmur of “Hear, hear” rose among the throng. First the butler, and then others came forward to offer their hands. After accepting good wishes with as much composure as he could manage with a broken heart, Richard noted that the crowd began to part.
There at the open front door stood Anne, looking regal and beautiful—every inch a de Bourgh. Richard’s heart turned over. She walked down the steps and stopped a few feet from Richard. After giving him an imperious look, she turned to the servants.
“It is well that we do homage to Colonel Fitzwilliam. While we stay here safely at home, involved in our daily tasks, he goes across the seas to join our troops to face the tyrant of France—the monster who endangers freedom everywhere.” She turned back to Richard. “Colonel, you go to battle with our thanks and prayers. Do honor to our gracious majesty, George III, and return home safely to us. God save the King!”
“God save the King!” repeated the crowd.
“Colonel, here is an additional report from the steward. He entrusted it to me to be delivered to you personally.” Anne handed Richard an envelope. “Good-bye, Cousin, and Godspeed!” She held out her hand.
A very confused Richard gave Anne’s hand the most perfunctory of kisses before turning to mount his horse. As he did so, a shout arose from the gathered servants.
“Three cheers for Colonel Fitzwilliam!”
“HIP, HIP, HURRAH! HIP, HIP, HURRAH! HIP, HIP, HURRAH!” All cheered lustily, including Anne.
Richard awkwardly tipped his hat at the recognition and rode off, the people of Rosings waving until he was out of sight.
* * *
Richard spent the first half of his journey to London in quiet misery. He repeatedly thought about what had happened and what he might have done differently. Anne’s contrariness confounded him; one moment she embraced him, the next she ran away. Her farewell was particularly confusing. She acted as he might expect Lady Catherine to behave. Had he misjudged her feelings? No other answer occurred to him.
After about an hour while walking his horse, Richard recalled the letter from the steward. Deciding to occupy his mind with estate issues rather than romantic ones, the colonel took the letter from his inside coat pocket and opened it. To his surprise, the note had only three words written on it:
I love you.
Richard stopped his horse and stared at the note for what seemed an eternity, his mind working to believe what he saw. Finally, reality was triumphant, joy overspread his features, and a shout of glee escaped his lips. There was no doubt who had written the beautiful words; Richard knew Anne’s hand very well. All of his doubt erased, the colonel looked about him in happy confusion.
To his horse he said, “Look! You see? Ha, ha! She loves me—Anne loves me! Hurrah! Oh, the world is wonderful! Oh, I think I shall go mad with happiness!” He began to dance in front of his mount. “What shall I do? Shall I return to Rosings? Yes, I shall see my sweet Annie again, speak to my aunt—”
Richard stopped short; reality reigned. He knew he could not successfully face Lady Catherine again. What should he do? He could not return to Rosings; Lady Catherine would never give her consent. Anne would come away with him regardless, Richard was sure of it, but that would assuredly ignite war within the family now, just as he was going to France. No, that would be selfish.
But Richard knew he must respond. Anne must be told that he returned her feelings. Oh, what a brave, wonderful woman she was! To take such a chance—to risk the exposure! She must be protected. But how would he communicate with her?
He could not write to anyone at Rosings, save Lady Catherine, and there was no solution there! He thought about contacting Mrs. Parks or the steward or Mrs. Jenkinson, but that would not serve. Richard could not ask them to be part of such a conspiracy.
Another moment’s thought and Richard leapt upon his horse. He spurred his mount towards London and the one person who could help him.
* * *
The Darcy family was gathered in the sitting room when the butler announced Colonel Fitzwilliam.
“Richard!” said Elizabeth. “Welcome to Darcy House. We were just sitting down to tea. Would you care to join us?”
Richard bowed to his cousins. “That would be most agreeable.”
Darcy eyed him. “You have ridden hard, I think. Perhaps something stronger than tea?”
“No, Cousin, perhaps later. Tea is just the thing to set me up.”
“I am so glad to see you again,” said Georgiana. “I thought when you took your leave of us last week we should not meet again until you returned from… well—”
“I must report to my regiment tomorrow, but tonight I have business here.” Richard smiled at his ward.
Darcy became alert. “I see. Shall we adjourn to the library then?”
“Darcy, Darcy, I did not say my business was with you. I must speak with Georgiana.” He turned to the girl. “My dear, I need your help.”
* * *
“Richard, I cannot say I like this scheme of yours,” complained Darcy.
“Why not, Brother?” asked Georgiana. “I think it is perfectly sensible. Besides, he asked me, not you.”
Darcy frowned. When he married, he had hoped that Elizabeth and her sisters would have a lively effect upon Georgiana, but not this lively. “Georgiana, I am still your guardian—”
“Yes, Husband,” injected Elizabeth, who handed Anne’s note back to Richard, “and a most reasonable one you have been,” she added with a raised eyebrow—an unmistakable signal that told him to trust her in this matter. Darcy knew there was no winning this battle, as he had learned upon previous occasions.
In any case, he thought, she is usually right.
“I will allow this… slightly improper plot,” Darcy said magnanimously, “as long it is under Mrs. Darcy’s supervision.” There—it is your fault should things go badly.
“My husband is most wise,” Elizabeth said with only the smallest twinkle in her eye. “Richard, you will give your sealed note to me. Georgiana, I am afraid I must approve of your letter to Anne prior to it being sent with Richard’s note enclosed.” Both Richard and Georgiana agreed to the conditions.
Elizabeth’s twinkle did not escape Darcy’s notice.
You shall pay for that, my love—he promised with a slight smile—tonight.
Elizabeth smiled in return, acknowledging that she guessed her husband’s plans and heartily approved of them.
* * *
Mrs. Jenkinson looked upon Anne with a sense of helplessness as her charge paced her rooms like a caged wildcat. Anne could not go out of doors—the April rains had come with a vengeance—and there was no relief downstairs with her mother’s incessant plans for Bath.
She knew her advice to Anne to reveal everything to her beloved was sound. She had half-expected Colonel Fitzwilliam to have returned by now; surely, he had read Anne’s note. Since the girl’s impulsive act of giving the colonel such a blatant, unladylike declaration of her feelings, Anne’s emotions had swung between mortification and anxiety. Anne had told her that she longed to hear from her colonel, but at the same time was frightened to know what he thought of her rash action. Everything now depended on the colonel to act in such a way as to give comfort.
It had now been three days and there was no sign of the man. Mrs. Jenkinson worried. Had they misjudged the young man?
Her ruminations ended with a knock at the door. Mrs. Jenkinson opened it to find Mrs. Parks with a letter for Anne from Georgiana Darcy. From the look on the housekeeper’s face, it was certain that Mrs. Parks felt that the only way to prevent Lady Catherine from intercepting Anne’s mail was to deliver it herself.
“Anne,” said her companion, “here is a letter for you. ’Tis from Miss Georgiana.”
“Go on, my dear,” Mrs. Jenkinson replied. To Mrs. Parks she said after Anne had left them, “Thank you, Mrs. Parks. It was good of you to bring the post directly to Miss Anne. She has been quite low these last two days.”
“’Tis no trouble. I am glad to be of service to dear Miss Anne.” She lowered her voice. “I only hope that we have not placed our trust in an unworthy gentleman.”
“I cannot believe him to be so—” Mrs. Jenkinson began.
“Hurrah!”
The two women looked in surprise at the giggling shout that came out of Anne de Bourgh’s bedroom. A few minutes later the occupant emerged, relatively composed, save for the heightened color on her cheeks.
“Mrs. Parks, there will be a letter of reply for Miss Darcy. Please see that it is posted directly.”
“Yes, miss,” responded a puzzled housekeeper.
“Mrs. Jenkinson, please excuse me, but I must see to this letter at once.”
“Of course. I will just see to dinner, shall I?” The two older women gave each other a knowing look.
As Anne reached her writing desk, she added, “Oh, by the way, Mrs. Jenkinson, please be so kind as to inform my mother that I shall not be accompanying her to Bath—not next month, nor any time in the future. Thank you, that is all.”
Mrs. Parks and Mrs. Jenkinson walked down the hall, each fighting an urge to cheer as well.
Chapter 18
London—April, 1815
Buford House, London
My dearest wife,
Can it be that you have been gone for only a fortnight? It has been an age, I am sure. I rattle about my empty rooms, expecting to find you reading in some out-of-the-way corner. If I listen closely, I can hear you playing on the pianoforte. Ah, but I am a pitiful fool!
Most of the staff officers have arrived from London, so I am released to prepare for the arrival of my regiment. I have met the young Prince of Orange. I wish you were here to meet him yourself, my own Queen of Orange—ha! You would find him amusing, I dare say. As for the prince being a military man, I have my doubts.
Darling, I must close now. I shall write as often as I can, but do not be alarmed if you do not hear from me as often as you could desire. My duties take up almost twenty hours of the day.
Longing to kiss you good night, I remain
Yours,
JB
PS—Pray ask Colonel Fitzwilliam to see to my equipment. I have good officers in my regiment, but their heads will be filled with their own concerns.
Caroline frowned—Sir John had not received her letter. She reached for ink and paper.
* * *
Delaford
Marianne Brandon was seeing to the last of the packing of her husband’s trunks, the family dog, a greyhound named Princess, about her feet. The family owned several greyhounds, but Princess was a particular favorite. Marianne tried desperately to anticipate Colonel Brandon’s needs when he got to Belgium: shirts, breeches, and trousers, flannel waistcoat, coats, uniform coats, stockings, small clothes, neckcloths, and—handkerchiefs!
Marianne raced to the dressing room, searching for Christopher’s handkerchiefs. “Where are they?” she mumbled to herself before opening the correct drawer. How many would her husband need? Would six be enough? He might catch cold in the rain. Would Christopher have to sleep in a tent?
Finally, the absurdity of the situation struck her.
You silly goose. Christopher is going to war. He cannot be bothered with handkerchiefs.
Dropping them, Marianne slid to the floor of Colonel Brandon’s dressing room, completely overcome with tears.
* * *
“Christopher, you are joking. Please tell me you are joking!” Marianne had cried the day before.
Colonel Brandon was as miserable as he had ever been in his life. He had just told his wife that he was not reporting for duty in London. He was called to Belgium instead to serve on Wellington’s staff, as requested by the duke himself.
“My Marianne—”
“But you are so old! You have not served for years!”
Christopher winced at the blow. He tried not to resent the comment. It was true, after all.
“What do you know of wars and fighting and cannons and—”
“Marianne,” he interrupted her ranting. “I am a colonel—”
“You were a colonel! Why you? Why?”
“Because there is no one else.”
* * *
Marianne resumed the packing after a little while. She neatly folded the handkerchiefs she had embroidered with his initials before placing them into the trunk. Nightshirts, robe, shaving kit, soap, tooth powder, and coffee were put in next. The last item brought a small smile to her lips when she remembered their fondness for sharing it. Salt, pepper, sugar, tea, polish for his boots…
The bedroom door opened as Sergeant Masters, Colonel Brandon’s aide, valet, and right-hand man, came in carrying a long, wrapped bundle.
“Please excuse me, missus,” he said as he placed the bundle inside the last trunk. “All done ’ere yet, ma’am?”
“I believe so, Sergeant,” Marianne answered.
“It looks ta me like you ’ave done a fine job. Beggin’ your pardon, though, but I think I will just double-check.”
“Of course, Sergeant. I would not dream of objecting. I will be downstairs with the colonel. Come along, Princess.”
The soldier eyed Marianne kindly as he gave the dog a pat. “A right good idea, ma’am. It would mean a lot to ’im, it would. And you should not worry. Me an’ the colonel been through a lot together. I will be watchin’ out for ’im. You got me word on it.”
“Thank you, Sergeant. I shall hold you to that, sir!”
“Yes, missus.” Masters began digging into the chests.
Marianne meant to leave, but she found she was rooted to the spot. The bundle Masters had brought was slightly unraveled due to the sergeant’s efforts. There, gleaming in the sunlight, was the hilt of Christopher’s sabre.
* * *
Arriving at the foot of the stairs, Marianne was about to ask a maid where the master was when she heard Joy giggling to a familiar chant.
“Who is my love? Who is my love? Why, it is Joy! Ha, ha, ha!”
Marianne closed her eyes for a moment as she grasped the banister for support. I must bear it for him, she told herself. Back in control of her feelings, Marianne entered the parlor. There on the floor was her husband in the campaign uniform of a colonel of cavalry, playing with their daughter. She leaned against the door frame and watched, allowing Joy this special time with her father.
After a few more minutes, the child began to yawn. Christopher pulled Joy close to his chest as he sat up. Propping himself against a couch, the colonel rocked his daughter to sleep, singing a lullaby. Princess had gone to lie next to her master on the floor, her head on his lap. The only reason Marianne did not weep was that she had no more tears to give.
Finally, Joy was fast asleep. Christopher looked up at his wife as she walked over to him and relieved him of their daughter.
“I will be just a moment, love,” she said to him before returning Joy to the nursery.
By the time she returned, Christopher was back on his feet, pouring a cup of coffee from the pot the maid had just delivered. Before she could ask, he handed her the cup and poured another one.
“Shall we retire to the library, dear?” he asked. She nodded, and the pair left the parlor.
Once in the library, Christopher placed his cup down on his desk and held out a chair in front of it, indicating that he wished Marianne to sit there. After seating his wife, Christopher reclaimed his cup and sat behind the desk, facing his wife.
“My love, here is all the information you need to manage Delaford in my absence—ledger, chart of accounts, book of contracts, an address book with the names of the solicitor, banker, agent, contacts at the War Department—everythi
ng. The steward, Mr. McIntosh, has been in my service for a dozen years. He is hardworking and honest.”
He held up an envelope. “Here is my will, and here,”—he handed Marianne another envelope—“are my instructions naming you as my agent, giving you full power of attorney. This means you speak with my voice, and all decisions you make are final.”
Marianne could hardly mark what her husband was saying—her attention was riveted on those evil papers he referred to as his will. Christopher caught what had attracted his wife’s notice. He held up the will again.
“This states that I leave everything to Joy, that you are trustee of Delaford lands and mistress of Delaford Manor for the rest of your life, and you shall receive half the income. The house in London is yours, free and clear. There is also a bequest to my ward, Eliza.” At Marianne’s distressed look he continued. “We must speak of such things, my dear. To know that you, Joy, and Eliza are well provided for is a comfort to me.
“Now here is a letter explaining all to Mr. McIntosh—oh, blast! I meant to add something,” he mumbled. “I forgot to leave instructions for McIntosh to reverse the ratio of barley to wheat this year. Oh, where is paper—”
“Christopher, I want to have another baby!” cried out Marianne.
Christopher looked up. “Pardon me?”
“These legal and business matters give you comfort. But I wish for something, too. I want to have another baby—a son,” she said to him seriously.
“But… but these things are unpredictable—”
“I know that, you silly man, but I wish to try before you leave in the morning.”
Christopher looked into the earnest eyes of his wife. Leaving her pregnant was not comforting to him, yet he could see the justice in her words. To be in her arms was his greatest delight, and the odds were tremendously in his favor.
“Are you certain, my Marianne?” he said in the love code only the two of them understood.
She nodded.
Christopher reached out a hand to his now beaming wife. Hand in hand, they left the library just as Sergeant Masters came downstairs.
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