MISTRESS MARY
AND
THE GENERAL:
A Pride and Prejudice
Inspired Story
by
Bronwen Chisholm
HARVESTDALE
PRESS
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Some passages in this novel are paraphrased from the works of Jane Austen.
Mistress Mary and The General
Copyright © 2015 by Bronwen Chisholm
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book, or portions thereof, in any format whatsoever.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
As always, I must begin by acknowledging the muse herself, Jane Austen. The characters she created have touched so many over the years. I humbly offer my attempt in the hopes that it brings some joy.
Thank you to my beta reader, MK Baxley, and my critique group. Your assistance, as always, is indispensable.
Although I did think about it, this story would not have been written if it were not for my neighbor, Jeanne. She was one of my original beta readers and has always been supportive of my efforts. After I told her about Richard’s story in the epilogue of Behind the Mask, she told me I had to write it out because she just could not see it. So here it is, Jeanne. This one is for you.
Prologue
“Sarah.” Major General Richard Fitzwilliam clutched his wife’s hand, refusing to acknowledge the coolness of her skin or the lack of colour in her complexion. She had been pale for quite some time, but now it was as though any remaining colour had completely drained away.
“Sarah.” His voice grew louder and he shook her lightly, but still she did not respond.
Suddenly desperate, he pulled her into his arms as he cried out her name while tears covered his cheeks, dripping onto hers so it appeared they both wept freely. “No! No!” He laid his head upon her still chest and whispered, “No.” She had been ill for years, but he had never fully allowed himself to accept the truth; that he might lose her.
A door opened. He heard footsteps approach the bed, but he would not acknowledge them. They were there to take her from him, but he would not release her.
His batman and maid exchanged a glance before moving closer to the couple, one on each side of the bed. As one they both reached out, O’Toole taking hold of his master while Emma attempted to assist her mistress one last time.
“No!” Richard screamed as he wrenched his arm away from his batman, scooting back on the bed, and clinging tighter to his wife who lay beside him.
“Sir, we must prepare her.” Emma reached again for her mistress, but drew back quickly at the fierce look in her master’s eyes.
“Major General.” O’Toole stood straight, hoping his actions would recall the man’s military training.
Before he could say more, a small voice was heard from behind him. All eyes turned to see young Master William standing in the doorway, quietly watching them. No one knew how long the child had been there.
“Papa? I heard you cry out. Is Mama …?”
Hearing the need in his young son’s voice brought a change over Richard and, taking a deep breath to regain mastery of himself, he gently laid his wife back upon the pillows, drawing the sheets about her as though she slept. Dropping his legs over the side of the bed, he turned and held out a hand to his son who stepped forward as the servants made way.
“Mama has gone from us, William.”
The young boy leaned against the bed, gazing at his mother, before turning to look up to his father. Wrapping his arms about Richard’s waist, he spoke very matter-of-factly for his age. “She is not here, Papa. You must let Emma care for her. She would want to look pretty when people come to see her, like they did Grandmamma.”
Richard clutched the child to him as he had his wife moments before. “You are correct, of course. Whatever would I do without you?”
He looked up to the faithful servants who stood waiting patiently nearby, and nodded for them to come forward. Taking his batman’s arm, he leaned heavily upon it as he stood. Still hugging his son, he allowed O’Toole to guide them from the room while Emma attended his wife.
“Shall I send a message to Darcy House, sir?”
“No, it can wait until morning.” Richard squeezed O’Toole’s arm before patting it and turning down the hall toward the nursery. He needed to see his children. William had made him realize he could not allow his grief to overwhelm him. Sarah would never forgive him.
Chapter One
The carriage increased speed, propelling its passengers forward toward their unknown future. Richard Fitzwilliam realized they had finally left London and were moving northward through Essex. He relaxed in the knowledge his driver would make good time, fully aware of their desire to reach Pemberley with the fewest delays.
He allowed his head to roll to the side so he could see the green fields and trees as they passed. It was summer and the Fitzwilliams were travelling to Derbyshire as they did every year, but this year the carriage was silent. In the past, they would have been laughing as they planned their time at Pemberley with family and friends; trying to squeeze every possible activity into the limited time they could be away from home. Instead, on this sad occasion they knew not when they would leave that grand estate.
Glancing across the coach, Richard watched the three year old twins sleeping against their nurse as they had previously done with their mother. As his vision blurred, he returned his gaze to the passing countryside, blinking rapidly to hide his grief. A small tug on his arm drew him back and he looked down upon his son who sat beside him.
William Henry Fitzwilliam was only six years old, but his eyes appeared ancient. Whenever Richard looked into them, he felt as though he were taking counsel from a wise older man. Though everyone said William was the spitting image of his father, Richard knew he had his mother’s eyes. The tears sprung afresh as he thought of his late wife, and he quickly looked away. “Yes, William?”
The young boy sat quietly, studying his father as he chose his words. “Will we return to London, Papa?”
Richard took a deep breath and brushed his hand across his eyes. “No, not for some time, at least,” he said and then forced a smile. “Are you not excited to see your cousins? There is much to do at Pemberley. It was one of my favourite places when I was your age.”
Shrugging his shoulders, William glanced past O’Toole, who sat on his other side, and looked out the window. “I suppose, but there are only girls at Pemberley.” He wrinkled his nose in displeasure.
“Charlie is nearby,” Richard offered as he attempted to hide his grin. “I am certain he is looking forward to having another boy in the neighbourhood.”
William’s brows knit together. “I suppose Cousin Lizzy and her sister do see each other quite often.”
“Of course,” Richard patted his son’s hand. “It is the reason the Bingleys purchased their estate in Derbyshire.”
William nodded thoughtfully as he turned back to his father. “What did you do when you were my age and at Pemberley, Papa?”
Settling back against the squabs, Richard crossed one ankle over the other and allowed himself to think back to his youth, before war and death had stolen so much from him. “Darcy and I had many an adventure at Pemberley. There were trees to climb, horses to ride, lakes and rivers in which to swim, and woods to explore. I am certain you will like it ever so much more than
London. It is a young boy’s dream.”
“But what of the parks and museums?” Suddenly William’s jaw dropped open as his eyes grew large. “What of the shops? Are there shops at Pemberley? Shall we be able to purchase books?”
Richard laughed as he ruffled his son’s hair. “There are shops in Lambton, which is an easy distance from Pemberley; but if books are your concern, you obviously do not remember Darcy’s library. You have never seen so many books in one location.”
A smile crept across his son’s countenance as he contemplated such a library. “I suppose it shall not be so terrible at Pemberley. How long will we stay, Papa?”
“We shall see,” Richard said as he patted William’s hand again. Returning his gaze to the passing countryside, he whispered, “We shall see.”
***********
Mr. Johns of the Swan’s Nest Inn stepped out into the courtyard in time to see another carriage approaching. It was his most profitable season as the members of the ton were making their way to their country homes in order to escape the heat and city odours which accompanied it. He had seen many travellers pass through this day, and expected as many or more the next.
As the carriage drew nearer, he recognized the markings and a smile spread across his lips. He waited patiently as the footman climbed down and opened the door for the family inside. Mr. Johns rubbed a hand over his midsection to dislodge any dirt as he approached the gentleman who descended from the coach. Upon seeing the pained expression there, he hesitated and blinked hard.
“By my word, it is you, General Fitzwilliam; for a moment I thought your father, God rest his soul, had returned for another taste of my wife’s strawberry tarts.” He laughed heartily, but the gentleman appeared to struggle returning a smile.
“Mr. Johns,” he murmured as he shook the innkeeper’s hand. “I could well imagine my father would seek any opportunity available to sample Mrs. Johns’ tarts once more.” A shadow of a smile passed quickly across his features.
“Will you be staying the night, sir?” the innkeeper asked as he glanced toward the footman who was assisting the other occupants from the carriage.
“Yes, we require two rooms.”
Mr. Johns studied the man before him. The jovial soldier he had once known appeared a shadow of his former self. He glanced about at the children and servants who had exited the carriage, and his brow knit together. It was then the normally observant man noticed the party’s sombre attire.
“Forgive me, sir, but Mrs. Fitzwilliam is not accompanying you this year?” he asked, fearing the response.
A pained expression passed over the gentleman’s countenance. “My wife is no longer with us.” The General turned toward the inn, obviously not wishing to hear the man’s response.
“My condolences, sir. Mrs. Fitzwilliam was a lovely lady; my wife will be sad to hear it.”
Fitzwilliam nodded his head, but continued without another word and preceded the group into the inn. The innkeeper followed close behind and led them to a private dining room where they could wait for their rooms to be readied.
Passing his wife on his way back to the main room, he was suddenly moved by the loss he had seen in the travellers, and he pressed a kiss upon her cheek.
“Mr. Johns!” she cried, looking about to see who had witnessed his show of affection.
“What? I am not allowed to express my appreciation for you, Shannon, after all these years?”
She looked about again as a smile crept across her lips. “What would people say? You might turn away our customers.”
“Then let them go, if they do not understand a man showing his gratitude for the gifts God has given him.” He patted her backside as he continued on his way, leaving his confused, blushing wife staring after him.
***********
O’Toole entered the room to find his master seated in a chair, staring blindly into the unlit hearth. He shook his head as he went about his duties, laying out a nightshirt and hoping Fitzwilliam would find some rest this night.
“Will it be this difficult at every stop, do you think?”
Turning toward the voice, O’Toole saw the man had not moved. “I cannot say, sir. Would you prefer I leave the carriage first and speak to the innkeepers?”
With a great sigh, Fitzwilliam pushed himself out of the chair and began removing his waistcoat. “No, it is best to be done with it as soon as possible.” He tossed the article of clothing onto his jacket and cravat which he had removed upon entering the room. “I suppose Mrs. Johns will give her condolences in the morning.”
“They are good people, sir.” O’Toole looked over the clothing in the portmanteau while his master disrobed. “Shall you wear riding clothes tomorrow? Perhaps you might ride beside the carriage for a time?”
Fitzwilliam shook his head before he drew on the nightshirt. “I fear the desire to continue on to Pemberley would be too great. Riding beside the carriage would be nearly as frustrating as sitting within it.”
“Yes, sir.” The servant removed clothing from the bag and turned for the door in order to go below and have it pressed for the morrow.
“Thank you, O’Toole.” Fitzwilliam gave his man a slight nod of his head. “I fear I have not said it enough.”
The valet nodded his understanding and left the room. Pausing by the children’s room, he knocked softly so as not to disturb them if they slept. A moment later their nurse, Mrs. Hampton, opened the door. O’Toole tugged his forelock as he bent slightly at the waist.
“Forgive my intrusion, ma’am. Have you anything needing pressing for tomorrow? I shall see to it, so you may remain with the bairns.”
Mrs. Hampton smiled. “The maid has just arrived to sit with them so I could see to the pressing. They are sleeping, and I doubt they will stir for some time. I would like a few minutes to step outside for a breath of fresh air.”
A frown creased O’Toole’s forehead. “I would advise you not do so alone, ma’am. A coaching inn is not the safest place.” He looked about. “Perhaps I should accompany you.”
“I believe that would be acceptable, sir.”
The nurse’s smile brightened and O’Toole stood a bit taller as he took the clothing she held and offered her his arm. A slight blush covered her cheeks as she accepted his assistance and closed the door behind her. They proceeded down the stairs to the work area. After handing off the items to one of the maids and giving specific directions, they continued outside.
The heat from the day still lingered in the air, but a breeze stirred the passing foliage as they moved away from the dusty courtyard. Crickets began their nightly song and the distant croaking of frogs told of a nearby pond.
O’Toole was a man of few words and, in the presence of a lady, any thought of conversation fled from him. He had admired Mrs. Hampton from the time she joined the Fitzwilliam’s staff four years prior, newly widowed with no children of her own; but he had made no attempt to further a relationship with her. He doubted a refined woman such as she would notice a war-weary veteran.
Since the mistress passed, he had watched as General Fitzwilliam struggled with his loss. Part of him found solace in the fact he would never be in such a circumstance to feel such grief but, at the same time, he longed for that connection to another person. In the last week or so, he had been spending more time with the Fitzwilliam children; an attempt to ease their mourning he told himself. Indeed, he did love the young ones, like a kindly uncle; but if he were truly honest, he would admit it was Mrs. Hampton who drew him to the nursery.
A quiet sigh from that lady drew him from his musings and he glanced in her direction. They were nearly the same height so he did not have the disadvantage many men had of her bonnet blocking his view. He noticed a tear making its slow trek down her cheek and he stopped walking, bringing her to a halt as well.
“Missus, are you well?”
Nodding her head as she brushed a hand across her cheek, she forced a smile. “I was simply thinking of the poor Fitzwilliams. The missus wa
s such a goodly lady; it feels as though she took the hearts of those she left behind with her.”
“Aye, I must admit my thoughts had taken a similar turn. I wondered if it would not be better to remain unaffected by others than to suffer as they are doing.”
Her eyes widened as she looked at him. “Surely you do not believe the General would toss aside a moment of the joy he had with his wife to avoid the heartache he feels. I see him sometimes, when he believes no one is watching, and a sad smile will cross his lips as he stares at her chair. I believe he is reliving a conversation or event that has taken place. He is missing her, but he can still smile at her memory. In time, the pain will soften and the smiles will increase.” She took her hand from his arm and, removing a handkerchief from her reticule, dabbed her nose.
“Was that how you felt after losing Mr. Hampton?” O’Toole asked quietly.
She nodded, but there was a distant look in her eyes. “Mr. Hampton and I were childhood friends in a small community. When we were of age, we married. I was never romantic and did not expect more than what we had, a friendship.”
O’Toole was silent; not knowing what to say, he decided to wait for her to continue. A moment later, she glanced down at the ground and began walking again, so he kept pace beside her.
“Shortly after he passed and I had accepted the position with the Fitzwilliams, I was making ready for bed one evening and decided to check on Master William once more before retiring. I entered the nursery quietly, but realized someone else was there. It took a moment for my eyes to adjust to the dim light, but when they did, I saw them. The master and the mistress were standing with their arms about each other, looking down upon their son as he slept. The joy and contentment they felt was palpable. I realized I had never experienced anything like that in my life; I doubt many have.”
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