Death Takes a Holiday at Pemberley

by Kelly Miller

  “Oh, well, yes.” Bingley pulled it off his finger and handed it to the other man.

  Mr. Graham held it up and gave it an intent stare. He murmured, “Interesting,” before handing it back. “I do not expect you are aware, but I have a gift that allows me an insight into people. In the past, I have used my gift to give advice to others. I have found that certain people are harder to decipher while others are easier. You happen to be one of those individuals for whom little effort is necessary for me to discern all and sundry details, including certain secrets you may prefer to keep hidden.”

  He took a large sip of port. “Indeed?” How could this eccentric fellow be Darcy’s friend? Was this some sort of theatrical act?

  “For instance, I am aware that, while you have not yet been unfaithful to your wife, you have been carrying on a flirtation with a certain attractive widow who resides in London.”

  Bingley sputtered and coughed as he gagged on the spirits he had been attempting to swallow. A burning sensation filled his throat. How? How could he know this?

  “Your wife, the former Jane Bennet, as I understand it, is Elizabeth’s elder sister. Mrs. Bingley is a beautiful, caring, and gentle lady. I am sure I do not surprise you when I say she is not the sort of lady who would ever act out in violence towards you, not even if she learned you had been unfaithful.”

  Taking a handkerchief from his pocket, he wiped his mouth and dabbed at the perspiration beading on his forehead and temples. Has he been following me? What does he want?

  Mr. Graham’s voice took on a sharpness. “Mrs. Bingley is much too generous to ever blame you for such a lapse. Instead, she would put all of the culpability upon herself. She would be convinced that for you to reach out in such a way to another woman must mean she had failed you as a wife. As charming and kind as your wife is, she does not have a high opinion of herself. She is aware she lacks many accomplishments that women of the ton are expected to have. The one area she feels she can take pride in is her role as the best wife and mother she can be. If Mrs. Bingley considered herself a failure as a wife, she would not be able to live with the shame. She would take her own life.”

  With a choking sound, he shook his head. His face was on fire and his voice hoarse. “No! I do not believe it. Not my dear, beautiful Jane! She would never harm any living thing, much less herself. She would never commit such a heinous act. Never!”

  The blond man gave him a harsh, cold stare. “Mayhap you are not aware, but your wife is familiar with the poisons that can be obtained from plants growing in abundance around your estate.”

  He gasped. Jane often gathered plants of all kinds for special teas!

  “I see you understand what I mean. Just as your wife is familiar with the trees and shrubs that produce leaves and flowers having special medicinal properties, she is no less knowledgeable of those that could cause harm or death. I have a distinct image in my mind of Mrs. Bingley brewing a potent concoction of wolfs bane and foxglove that would be quite lethal.” Mr. Graham gulped down the last of his port. “And just to illustrate my earlier point, such a death would no doubt be reported as an accident or sudden illness. I cannot imagine you would want to tell your good friend Darcy and your wife’s dearest sister, Elizabeth, that your Jane took her own life because she discovered you had a mistress.”

  Taking several raspy breaths, Bingley took his head in his hands and groaned. What had he done?

  The blond man’s boots scraped on the wood floor, creating a dissonant squeak as he rose to his feet. A warm, firm hand landed upon Bingley’s shoulder. “I am glad I spoke to you before you took things too far. Your wife already suspects the worst. You can no longer afford to make foolish and selfish decisions. For the sake of your wife and son, be the man they need you to be.”

  As Bingley raised his head, Mr. Graham left the room. His heart thumped at a fierce pace whilst the implications of Mr. Graham’s words echoed in his head. Did Jane already suspect he had been unfaithful? With the possibility before him, the truth of it screamed out at him. Since his most recent return from London, he had on several occasions caught a fleeting look of sadness on his angel’s face. Each time, he had dismissed the thought, attributing the signs of his wife’s distress to the uncertain and mysterious moods women were known to have. His father had often said that women were strange creatures who were beyond comprehension, and any man who attempted to understand them was a fool. But Jane was different from most women. She was never moody or cross; she was always kind, loving, and even-tempered.

  How could he have been so unfeeling? Why had he listened to his deuced brother Hurst when he had said that anything he did away from his wife would have no impact on her? Yet he could not pretend ignorance of the hurt a wife would feel by her husband’s infidelity. He had borne witness to the effect on his poor mother of his father’s dalliances.

  His father had been a good man in many ways, but he had kept other women throughout his marriage. How many times had he sworn to himself that he would never treat a wife as his father had? To think he could have lost his kind, beautiful Jane! He had behaved as a fool; he did not deserve such an angel! Thank goodness Mr. Graham had warned him in time! He would confess the whole of it to his wife at once and beg her forgiveness. Never again would he lie to her—not for any reason. He would win back her trust no matter how long it took.

  With a heaving breath, Bingley wiped his clammy palms on his trousers and went upstairs to find his wife.

  ***

  In the luxurious bed of the mistress’s chambers, Elizabeth was snug and warm, ensconced in her husband’s arms with her head atop his chest. The regular pulse of his heartbeat soothed her as she revisited the day’s events in her memories. Even with the inimical presence of Lady Catherine and, until the late afternoon, Lady Rebecca, her birthday celebration had been a resounding success.

  It warmed her heart that her husband had gone to such pains to surprise her with her family’s arrival and to ensure that every element of her birthday celebration would be to her liking. He had planned all of this with Mrs. Reynolds while he had been saddled with the burden of overseeing the estate without a steward. Although Fitzwilliam could have delegated the majority of the planning with ease to their efficient housekeeper, it was not his nature to do so. On the contrary, he would have gone over each detail with painstaking care.

  Much of the day and evening had been spent in anticipation of time alone with her husband, and he did not disappoint. Their lovemaking had been a beautiful and memorable conclusion to her birthday and left her sated and contented.

  Her hand moved over her abdomen, as she found herself doing often of late. Although it remained flat, her courses were over two months late; it was possible she was increasing. It was too early to be certain, but she would tell her husband soon—maybe tomorrow.

  A sudden realization drew her attention: as Fitzwilliam’s chest rose and fell beneath her with each breath, it lacked the pattern she associated with his sleeping state. Was he still awake? It was his wont to fall asleep well before she did. A moment later, his arms pressed her closer against him. She would have asked him if aught was on his mind, but he spoke first.

  “Elizabeth, I want you to know how much joy you have given me. The first year of our marriage, I thought my life with you was perfect. I had never before known such contentment. Then we had Bennet, and I was further blessed. I know not what I have done to deserve such happiness, but I am grateful for it. Each moment spent with you and Bennet is more precious to me than I can express. Since the day of our engagement, I have experienced more happiness than most men receive in the whole of their lifetime.”

  Her hand moved to her heart; it beat with a tempestuous force. His speech was touching, but an unusual quiver in his elocution made her breath quicken and her mouth go dry. Nevertheless, she soon chided herself for her silliness. She was in her husband’s safe embrace; it
was no place for dark musings.

  “I hope you know that in you I found my ideal match. How fortunate I am that you did not give up on me and find yourself a lady less stubborn, disagreeable, and prejudiced. By the time we became engaged, I was certain I did not deserve your constancy. If I have made you as happy as you have made me, I am well satisfied.” Fitzwilliam kissed the top of her head. Elizabeth’s breathing slowed, and any remaining tension fled her body as she gave way to a contented, lureful fatigue.

  ***

  Darcy’s hand stroked Elizabeth’s hair with the gentlest of touches. Her breathing had changed; she was asleep. It had been a long, busy, and at times, stressful day, but he fought the temptation to succumb to his fatigue. This may be his last night with her. He would relish the joy of holding his wife in his arms, breathing in her essence, and feeling her soft skin against his body for as long as possible. When he found sleep in the early hours of the morning, a contented smile was fixed upon his face.

  ***

  Wednesday, September 20

  Darcy had slept little the night before, but now, in the company of Elizabeth and Bennet in the nursery, he was brimming with vitality. After his wife had fallen asleep in his arms, he had dredged up as many happy memories as he could of himself and Elizabeth from their days as an engaged couple until the present.

  With so many pleasant recollections in mind, it had been, if not easy, at least possible to reach a resolution to focus on his blessings rather than on all he would be compelled to miss. He would not consider Bennet growing up without him or never meeting his daughter. He would not imagine Elizabeth mourning him or moving past her grief and remarrying. He would not dwell on never seeing his loved ones ever again. No—he would not do that.

  Bennet’s exhilaration regarding the previous day’s events and the presents he had received was in full force. His rosy cheeks, his cheery speech that at times descended into babble, and his animated movements drew Darcy’s attention and fed his soul. His son’s enthusiasm, as well as his wife’s soothing presence, ensured his spirits remained high—any alternative in their company was impossible.

  Continuing in his energetic manner, Bennet named his two favourite gifts from the night before. The first, which had accompanied him to bed last night and was now held against his chest, was the stuffed dog from Cousin Anne and Lady Catherine. His second was the set of crayons, paints, and coloured paper from Aunt Georgiana and Uncle Richard. But he had not forgotten his pony and expressed his desire to have another ride, so the three of them, accompanied by Miss Hunter, left for the stables.

  After Bennet’s well-loved ritual of greeting the horses and gifting them with treats, he was given his riding lesson. Upon hearing his parents’ suggested names, the toddler decided upon “Danny” for his pony. Once again, Darcy held his son for the entire ride. This time, Bennet showed not a trace of hesitation when put upon the pony’s back and only needed to be admonished once not to kick. His son was a quick learner and had an affinity for horses. It would be many years before Bennet could handle his pony on his own, but one day he would be an excellent horseman.

  Darcy said little during the lesson, rapt as he was in the appreciation of every nuance of this time with his family. Afterwards, as Bennet walked back to the house with Miss Hunter, he and Elizabeth took a walk on one of their favourite trails.

  ***

  As they strode hand in hand, Elizabeth took frequent glances at Fitzwilliam. Her husband had been more quiet than usual this morning, but he revealed no sign of discontent. She faced him with a raised brow. “A penny for your thoughts.”

  He smiled, his dimples on full display. “I was reflecting with satisfaction on how well the events of yesterday came to pass.”

  She squeezed his hand. “I shall risk making you prouder than ever before by echoing those sentiments and commending you for planning perfect birthdays for both myself and Bennet.”

  “I am pleased to accept your praise and shall do my best to keep my pride under good regulation.” He met her eyes. “Although, blessed with a wife as beautiful and wise as yourself and a son as perfect as Bennet, who could blame me if my pride should overflow on occasion?”

  “Such hyperbole! I begin to think you have fallen under Graham’s influence.”

  “Not at all. I speak as I find.” He directed his gaze towards the horizon. “Graham and I had a conversation the other day that reminded me of how fleeting life is. None of us knows how much time we have left to live.”

  A shiver trickled down her back. Was this introspection on his mortality the reason for his strange mood? Why did his words give her so much disquiet? He could not be ill. If he were to suffer from any sort of ailment, she would be aware of it before anyone else. She closed her mouth to quell her quivering lower lip and moved closer to Fitzwilliam, pressing her shoulder against him as she walked. “That must have been a morbid conversation.”

  He leaned over her and kissed her cheek. “What I gleaned from our discussion was the importance of appreciating what you have now.” His loving gaze and inviting smile soothed her and lifted her spirits. It was unthinkable not to return such a smile.

  “I cannot argue with such a lovely sentiment.” As an impulse came to her, she took on a playful aspect, and grinned at him. She released his hand and pointed ahead of them. “Do you see that yew tree ahead?”

  “Yes, of course. What of it?”

  “I shall race you there.” Hiking up the skirt of her dress, she ran towards the tree.

  After a second or two of hesitation, Fitzwilliam ran after her, and arrived at the tree just behind her.

  Between her heavy breaths, she demanded, “Did you let me win?”

  Her husband, who was not in the least out of breath, spoke with an even tone, “It could not be called a fair race in any case, Elizabeth, since you ran off before I knew what you were doing.”

  She arranged and retied her bonnet, which had fallen off her head and hung by the ribbons as she ran. “Yes, but I thought it would be fair since I ran in a dress and you did not.”

  “That is a bizarre bit of logic. However, since I have no conception of what running in a dress would be like, I shall have to take your word for it.” He lifted his hand and pushed a curl of her hair inside the bonnet where it had escaped.

  “I had thought to distract you and lighten your mood with exercise. I do not imagine I succeeded since you are not even out of breath.”

  Fitzwilliam took hold of her hand as they resumed their walk. “I appreciate the effort, but I assure you, my mood did not need to be lightened. As for distracting me, you manage to do so all the time regardless of your intentions.” He lifted her hand and kissed it. “Furthermore, you, my love, always take my breath away.”

  When they entered the house, they were informed that Lady Catherine had requested their immediate presence in the east sitting room. Her sanguine mood was spoiled at this bit of news. What did the lady want? A glance shared with Fitzwilliam convinced her that he had no more idea of what the summons concerned than did she. Based on the gloomy deportment her ladyship had displayed the previous evening, whatever she had to say was bound to necessitate an unpleasant conversation. It would be so like her to have spent the entire evening making note of every imagined mistake Elizabeth had made. By now the woman might have accumulated and catalogued a long list of new complaints against her that she was eager to convey.

  As Elizabeth entered the sitting room, all previous speculation flew from her mind. Her husband’s aunt was distressed: her eyes were red and puffy with dark circles beneath them as if she had not slept at all the night before. She dropped Fitzwilliam’s arm and hastened towards his aunt, who leaned on her walking stick more than usual to come to her feet at their approach. “Lady Catherine, are you well? Do you require tea or powders for a headache?”

  Lady Catherine blinked at her. “I
thank you, no. I am well. Please sit there, both of you.” She pointed towards the settee opposite her. Once they were seated, her ladyship regarded them with a countenance evocative of intense gravity. “I owe you both an apology. But first, I wish to impart knowledge of a significant event in my life. It should allow you to understand how I came to be as I have been. For most of my life, I have been an unhappy and bitter woman. You would not have heard anything of this, Darcy, but the summer of my nineteenth year, I met and fell in love with a young naval officer.”

  Elizabeth gasped. Beside her, Fitzwilliam’s posture stiffened, and his eyes widened. Her husband was as astonished as she.

  Lady Catherine continued. “Yes. I can see this was unknown to you. My brother is the sole living person who might have been aware of it, but he was away visiting friends for most of that summer. Lady Anne was not yet out, and I never spoke of this to her; she never knew about James.

  “I first met Captain James Weston at a party given at a neighbour’s estate. He had been a good friend of the eldest son of the family and was spending the summer with them. James had already enjoyed financial success in his naval career, but his father, though a gentleman, had a modest estate—smaller than the one Mr. Bennet owns. James became enamoured with me at first sight. Within a fortnight of parties, dinners, and frequent walks together around her parent’s estate, I fell in love with him.”

  Here was a side of Lady Catherine she had never before glimpsed. Her ladyship’s stooped posture, the slight tremor in her hands, and her gentle vocal tone made her seem small, frail, and even kind. With rapt attention, Elizabeth fought tears as her husband’s aunt told them the rest of her sad tale. She wrapped her arms around herself. How tragic it had been for Lady Catherine to have lost the man she loved before they could marry! If her naval officer had lived, Lady Catherine’s life would have been different in every way. She would not have had Rosings, her title, nor all the trappings of extreme affluence, but she may have had happiness.