The Cumberland Plateau

by Mary K. Baxley

  Chapter Twenty-six

  …we are fulfilling some sort of Divine Providence…

  As things settled into a routine, Fitzwilliam remembered the journal he had brought from the library at Pemberley. After they had finished dinner and cleaned the kitchen, he approached his wife.

  “Elizabeth, come here. I have something to show you.”

  “What is it?” she asked.

  He took her by the hand. “It’s a chronicle of the history of Pemberley, our estate in Derbyshire, whilst under the care of my ancestor, the first Fitzwilliam Darcy. I want us to read it together. Also, I want to tell you what I discovered concerning the English Bennets. We’ve yet to talk about it in any detail. Come, let’s go upstairs. I’ll tell you about it and then I’ll read to you. I told you that I checked the information you had given me,” he said as they climbed the stairs.

  “Yes, you told about it. What else did you discover?”

  “Well, I remembered you telling me you didn’t know whatever became of Edward.”

  “Yes, that’s correct. It’s recorded that he had three daughters. Other than that, I don’t know what happened. But I presume you do?” she asked.

  “Yes,” he said with a smile, “as a matter of fact, I do. Edward had five daughters—not three, and there were no sons. Longbourn was passed to a distant cousin, since neither John nor his sons were entitled to inherit it. Four of the daughters, as it turns out, had almost the same names as you and your sisters, and the fifth was named Lydia. Isn’t that strange?” he asked, gently putting his hand to the small of her back as they reached the landing.

  A small laugh escaped her throat. “Yes and no. Our family names are generational. They have been passed down and reused throughout our family’s history. It’s not recorded in anything we have as to what the names of Edward’s children were, let alone that he even had more than the three daughters I mentioned, so that part is news to me.”

  She paused in reflection. “From what you’re telling me, am I to assume that Edward had a daughter named Elizabeth, and there is a story associated with his Lydia?”

  “Yes, on both accounts. And as to Lydia, there is most certainly a story there, but we shall explore it together as it unfolds in the book.” He gently squeezed her hand. “Let’s just say that the apple doesn’t fall too far from the tree, and I can assure you we will not have a Lydia,” he said. “There seems to be a bad omen associated with that name.”

  Elizabeth laughed as they reached the bedroom door. “From what I know about John’s sisters, none were like my Aunt Lydia or cousin Liddy, so I had assumed that it must have come from Rebecca Jane’s side of the family, but now you’re telling me that Edward had one, too. And since I now know it runs on both sides of the family, you can rest assured there will be no Lydia Darcy. The name stops with Liddy.”

  “Good. I’m glad to hear it, but Lydia is not the topic of tonight’s discussion. I want to discuss something more akin to us. Now,” he said while picking up the book from the side table, “this volume contains the story of the courtship and love affair of Elizabeth Bennet and Fitzwilliam Darcy, and I can tell you, from what I have read, that in the beginning it didn’t run smoothly. In fact, they had a very rough go before finally coming to an understanding. Then, even at that, they almost didn’t.” He placed the book on the nightstand while they undressed and prepared for bed.

  Propped up in the bed with Elizabeth’s head resting on his shoulder and his arm secured around her, he continued. “The first Fitzwilliam appears to have been a mixture of David and me. From what I’ve read, I think we share many of his traits. It’s like looking back into the past and seeing yourself. I think you’ll enjoy learning about it.”

  As they settled in, he read of the first Fitzwilliam childhood, his sister’s birth, the consequent death of their mother, and of his struggles as a young man with a childhood friend, George Wickham, whom his father favored enough to treat as a second son. He read of Fitzwilliam’s Eton days, Cambridge days, his love of classical studies, his friendship with Charles Bingley and of the young man’s struggle after his father’s death, leaving him with the massive undertaking of caring for his young sister and the estate. Fitzwilliam Darcy was often lonely with the weight of the world on his shoulders. He read of George Wickham’s near seduction of Fitzwilliam’s sister and how devastated Fitzwilliam was by it. Had it not been for his impulse to visit her at Ramsgate, she would have been lost forever.

  Darcy continued reading for another hour, reciting about Charles Bingley’s taking the house at Netherfield, three miles from Longbourn. He read about the Meryton Assembly, Jane Bennet’s illness and her consequent sojourn at Netherfield, and Elizabeth’s trek through the mud to care for her sister. Darcy stopped after the entry where his ancestor had recorded his viewpoint of the Bennet girls and their mother. The entry was filled with a bitter barrage of his thoughts and feelings concerning Mrs. Bennet, a woman whom he found to be abhorrent, and though he was strongly attracted to her daughter, he could not come to terms with such a mother—a mother who would risk her daughter’s health, making it known in no uncertain terms that she fully expected her eldest daughter to snatch a rich husband, thereby throwing her other daughters into the paths of other rich men, and the thought that she might have designs on him as one of those rich men was especially revolting. And yet, knowing what he knew, Fitzwilliam struggled with his feelings, especially at night while alone in his room.

  “Hmm, he had a difficult time, didn’t he?” Elizabeth frowned. “I feel sorry for him. There appears to have been little joy in his life,” she said, snuggling closer to her husband, reading some of the text for herself.

  “His early life was much like mine and David’s, but I wouldn’t say that either his or ours were without happiness.” Fitzwilliam glanced at his wife and nodded. “Yes, there was a lot of sorrow there, but he did grow up at Pemberley, and that does not allow for complete unhappiness. Still, his struggles are what shaped his personality and character, as you’ll see later on. Do you not see the similarities?”

  “Yes, I do. One thing you have in common is your love of studies. He liked the very things you enjoy,” she paused, studying her husband. “And he was somewhat reserved, as you are.”

  “Yes,” Fitzwilliam chuckled, “and believe it or not, we share a strict moral code. You’ll see it more and more. He also had an unshakeable loyalty to family, which David and I both share. We are very protective of those we love. Later we’ll read more.” He carefully marked his place and closed the book, dropping it onto his lap before leaning over to kiss his wife.

  “You know,” Elizabeth said as she tilted her head. “From the things you’ve read and what little I already knew, I’m getting a better understanding of things. Edward’s wife was so very unlike Rebecca Jane. Fanny was more like a frivolous airhead, whereas John’s wife was thoughtful and kind. I feel sorry for Edward, and I can understand why your great-great-great grandfather disliked his future mother-in-law. Frances Bennet was vulgar and crass. I would have been embarrassed to death to have had such a mother. With this new insight into her personality, I think I now know what might have come between John and Edward and why they didn’t continue writing. Fanny hated Rebecca, and John knew that. John was prosperous. He had money and could have helped Edward, given the entailment and all, but as you say, John’s sons were not entitled to inherit Longbourn. Nevertheless, John still wanted one of his sons to marry one of Edward’s daughters. And had Edward had a son, well, John fully intended to reunite the house. Longbourn in Hertfordshire was very dear to him.”

  “Well, that’s probably right. From what I’ve read and now know about John, the brothers were close at one time. Although, as far as I know, Edward did not keep a journal, and there are no surviving letters to my knowledge, so we will never know how Edward felt about things. However, from what I do know of him, he didn’t have a resentful temper. He was a jolly man known for his keen sense of humor and sharp wit. I suppose it was nece
ssary in order to live with Fanny all those years, and yet Fanny was not wholly bad. They were simply a mismatched couple.”

  “That very well may be. Who knows? I still say that when you compare the two, John made the better match, but enough about them. I’m curious about something else. Tell me, who is this Charles Bingley your ancestor speaks of? Is he related to Jane’s husband?” Elizabeth asked.

  “Yes, Charles is. The Bingley family and the Darcy family go back over two hundred years. Later, you’ll find that he too married a Jane Bennet.”

  “Really? You’re kidding.”

  “No, I’m quite serious.”

  “That’s very strange, almost unbelievable.”

  “Yes, it’s all very extraordinarily coincidental. I’ll grant you that,” he agreed. “But as you said, your family uses family names generationally. Well, old families in England do the same thing. But what is even stranger is that two Fitzwilliam Darcys and two Charles Bingleys would marry sisters, Elizabeth and Jane Bennett, respectively.” He pulled her close and kissed the tip of her nose.

  “Okay, you’ve got my full attention. I want to know more about my English family. Were you able to discover anything about them?”

  “Yes, I did some more checking, and this is what I know. John and Edward’s sisters all married well, except for Emily. She remained unmarried and served in the Church. Elizabeth Rose Bennet—yes, another Elizabeth Rose, married a Frank Simmons and had three daughters. Emma Felicity married a widowed solicitor, James Toppan, who had three daughters and one son. They had no children of their own to survive beyond childhood. Mary Allison married a Samuel Hayes, and I found no record of their children, so I assume there were none.

  “Of Edward’s children, you already know about Rebecca Jane and Elizabeth Rose. Mary Frances, the next oldest, never married. She cared for her aging parents until their death and then came to live with my ancestor. Catherine Fiona married a clergyman in Hampshire and had two sons and five daughters. I don’t know what became of them. And sadly, Lydia Anne died in childbirth, as did her son. That’s what became of the Bennets. Charles and I are the only viable line from that family. We are your English relatives,” he said as he patted the volume in his lap.

  “On the Darcy side of the family, there are over one thousand years of family history and heritage to be held up, and when my time comes, I will rise to the challenge, even more so now that I have you. My heritage is something I must protect and preserve to someday pass down to our children.” Releasing a sigh, he gathered her in his arms.

  She smiled and reached up to kiss his cheek. “It will be our history together. Our children will have a rich heritage on both sides.”

  “Yes, they will, and next time we’re at Longbourn, I want to read more of John Bennet’s writings. I want to thoroughly go through them, and I’d like to see those old letters you have. I’m beginning to get an odd sort of feeling about things—as if our destiny is governed by Divine Providence. I’m also very curious about my American relations. I want to come to know them as well as I know my Darcy lineage. When I think of Edward, Nathanial, John Newton, Robert Lawrence, or the girls, I want to feel the same connection I feel when I think of my namesake’s progeny.”

  “All right, everything you want to see is kept in the library. Remind me, and I’ll get them for you. But Fitzwilliam,” she laughed and shook her head, “I’m not sure I buy into Fate and superstitions. I think it more a coincidence than anything else. And Jane keeps mentioning Indian Legends and white doves. I don’t believe any of that. The supernatural can always be explained,” Elizabeth said with a pointed look. “I prefer to think of you as my kissing cousin. This reminds me too much of the X-Files.” She giggled.

  “I don’t know about that, Liz. Some things cannot be explained away with logic. I think there are forces out there that watch over us.”

  “Perhaps. I do believe in God, I’m just not sure I believe that He concerns himself with the affairs of men. We control our own destiny through the choices we make. I don’t think our lives are governed by unseen forces. The unknown can always be explained. But, to change the subject, there is one other thing I’m curious about.”

  “Yes, and what might that be?”

  “I want to know how your family made their fortune. I realize that there was old money with land passed down through the generations, but how did your family transition from old money into the multibillion dollar conglomerate you have today?”

  “Oh, that. Well, that’s easy enough.” He chuckled. “Although we were never part of the peerage directly, we did marry into it throughout the Middle Ages and into the Renaissance, thereby increasing our wealth substantially. Where the transition came, though, was in the Industrial Age. Even though the term paradigm shift wasn’t coined in his day, my namesake understood the philosophy behind it very well. He saw the coming demise of the agrarian society and began to invest in trade through friends he’d made whilst at Cambridge. He invested in shipping and commodities from the Orient, mainly the East India Company, and from the Southern U.S. and West Indies. The Darcys imported cotton, silk, indigo dye, saltpeter, tea, sugar, rice, and opium. We owned a mercantile business in Liverpool and a cotton mill in Lancashire. Fitzwilliam Darcy also invested heavily in the steam engine and locomotive travel, but the biggest investment of all came through his great-grandson, William. He founded what is today Brit Am, the British American Petroleum Company.”

  “So your family owns Brit Am. Somehow I had missed that,” Elizabeth softly said, “and opium…hmm.”

  “Liz, before you say a word, opium was legal in the 18th and 19th centuries.”

  She raised her hand and smiled. “I wasn’t about to say a thing. Not really, I mean, how could I, considering that my own family was heavily involved in moonshine whiskey throughout that same time period?”

  He laughed and shook his head. “Well then, I guess both of us have our dark shadows, don’t we?”

  “Yes, we do,” she said with a smile.

  Placing the book on the night table, he turned back to his wife. “Now come here. I am in need of a different kind of lesson.”

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  …If there is more, I shall surely die…

  Thick moisture hung in the air, and it was cold, dreary, and dark. Fitzwilliam strolled to the window and peered out. Glancing at his watch, he noted it was merely four o’clock. He frowned. If he didn’t know better, he would have sworn a winter storm was moving in, but the early morning forecast had made no mention of foul weather. He shrugged it off, dismissing the thought as he turned and left for the library. It didn’t matter. Inside was cozy and warm, and his mood was light and happy.

  After pulling a CD with soft romantic songs from the shelf, he walked back to the dining room and put it in the sound system. In celebration of Elizabeth’s twenty-sixth birthday, he had come home from the university early, canceling his weekly student gathering for The Society of Ancient Languages in order to cook dinner for her, setting the mood with candles, flowers, and soft music. With great effort and not a little expense, he’d found an out-of-print book he knew she wanted. He had also learned from the journal that each year, in celebration of their anniversary and his wife’s birthday, his ancestral grandfather had given his grandmother jewels from Garrard’s in London. Fitzwilliam had thought much about it and decided to restore the custom, so in keeping with that established tradition, he’d ordered a pair of amethyst earrings with a matching pendant. At the sound of his wife’s car in the driveway, he smiled and left for the foyer.

  “Burr…it’s blustery cold outside, damp and unpleasant. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say it was going to snow,” Elizabeth said as she walked through the door, shivering.

  “I don’t think so. The morning forecast said the temperature would be dropping throughout the day, but there was no mention of anything else.”

  “Well, the weatherman isn’t always right. Once in a while he misses it. Here, help me with these thin
gs, and what’s that smell?” she asked, sniffing the air as she handed him her book bag.

  “That, my darling, is your birthday dinner, if I haven’t burnt it,” he said. “We are supposed to be enjoying Beef Wellington with potatoes, asparagus in crème sauce, and a garden salad with Madeira wine.” He greeted her with a kiss as he helped her out of her coat. “I had a raspberry torte prepared at Hudson’s Bakery, as I don’t think I could accomplish that on my own.”

  “And we have no lights?” she teasingly asked. “It’s very dark in here.”

  “I thought you might like an old-fashioned evening with candlelight,” he said. The twinkle in her fine eyes caused the corners of his mouth to lift.

  “Very romantic, I see. I love it when the lights are low. By the way, I noticed the music. I love you, Fitzwilliam.” She lifted her gaze to his with a smile that thrilled him.

  They sat and ate their meal while listening to the music and enjoying the mood. When the meal was over, he insisted that she not help him clean the kitchen, but rather have her tea while waiting until he had finished.

  Once finished, he escorted her to the informal sitting room where the wrapped gifts waited on the tea table.

  “These are for you.” He grinned.

  “What are they?”

  “Open them and see.” He motioned to the larger package first.

  “Fitzwilliam, you should not have gone to so much trouble.” She opened the book with a smile, recognizing the title immediately. “The Allegory of Love first edition by C.S. Lewis. Where did you find it? I have looked for this book for years.” She glanced up. “I absolutely love it! This is the book that launched C.S. Lewis’s career as a leading expert in the critical analysis of medieval and renaissance literature. Oh, Fitzwilliam, thank you.” She looked up with teary eyes.

  “Wait just a minute. You still have one more.” He handed her the second package and sat back to watch.