by AmyJ
Darcy nodded slowly, and then pulled Elizabeth to him again. "I wish you to be with me," he said softly.
"I wish it too, dearest husband." She rested her head against his chest. "I am afraid I would not be much use to the Hursts tonight though. I will see to our guests, and then join you as soon as may be, tomorrow."
Darcy hesitated, but knowing his wife was correct, acquiesced.
The next half hour was spent preparing for Darcy's departure. Elizabeth walked outside with him. Not caring that they were in plain sight of the road, Darcy pulled Elizabeth into one last embrace.
With tear-filled eyes, Elizabeth whispered, "Be careful, dearest husband."
Darcy smiled, and kissed her forehead. "No later than noon tomorrow," he ordered in return. Then, with a final kiss on the hand, he mounted and spurred Achilles into action.
Chapter Forty-Three - FINAL CHAPTER
Posted on: 2009-01-22
Darcy raced the setting sun to London. The household staff would be surprised to see him, but his requirements would be small. Some water for ridding
himself of the dirt from the road and a light meal would be sufficient. And mourning clothes.
Bingley was dead! He wondered how long it would take for that to sink in. He had just seen the man! Sure, their parting had not be under the best of
circumstances, but dead?
Guiltily, he wondered if he had been so distracted with Elizabeth that he had forgotten his duty to his friend. Since Bingley had left Netherfield, Darcy had written him, but had received no reply. London was but a few hours from
Meryton, an easy trip with a well sprung carriage. He could have gone and
returned the following day. He should have gone, but he was loath to leave
Elizabeth. And now Bingley was dead!
Dead. The word rang in his head like a school bell calling children to class. He had experienced his share of death, starting with the deaths of his own parents, but those had been long, drawn out deaths. He had just seen Bingley, whole
and hale!
Signs of the city sprung up around him, so he shook the dreary thoughts from his mind and turned them towards more practical ones. Part of him knew he
should go to Arryndale, clean up and wait for Mr. Hurst to show him the
wreckage, but the further into town he rode, the harder it became to dismiss his curiosity. Disbelief won out, and he could not help steering Achilles to
Grosvenor Square.
As he neared the location of Bingley's town house, shock took over, causing him to pull hard on Achilles' reigns. The once proud house was but a pile of rubble; the remnants of brick and stone were charred black. Wafts of smoke
still rose from the debris, and the scent of ash overpowered all the usual smells of the city.
Numbly, he slid from the saddle and walked toward it. Bit by bit, the rubble became recognizable: the back of a chair, the leg of Bingley's billiard table, the frame of a china cabinet, a once beautiful gilded picture frame.
Struck with the reality of the situation, his stomach wretched and left its contents on the street. Wiping his mouth on his sleeve, he returned to Achilles.
It was too much. In one swift move, he mounted and pressed the beast on
towards Arryndale with a single thought playing in his head: Bingley was dead.
It was no ruse, no sick joke. He had seen the carnage with his own two eyes.
Bingley was dead.
When he arrived at Arryndale, it was apparent that news of the fire had
preceded him. The servants were prepared for his arrival, and welcomed him
home with their usual efficiency; his butler had even gone so far as to lay out his mourning clothes. So, after a quick meal of cheese and dried meats, Darcy made his way to the Hursts' residence.
Relieved to be properly attired for the solemn task ahead, Darcy climbed the stone steps. A black wreath hung on the door spoke of the family's loss.
Without even needing to give his card, he was ushered into the Hursts' drawing room.
"Mr. Darcy." Hurst greeted. "It was good of you to come on such short notice."
"My deepest condolences on your loss," Darcy replied. "My wife arrives tomorrow, but also sends her sincere sympathies."
"Thank you." Hurst shook his head slowly, and then, after showing Darcy to another nearby seat, returned to his chair. "Very sad business this is," he muttered. "Louisa and Caroline have retired."
Hurst relayed all he could about the night of the fire and then went on to
discuss the funeral plans. "Charles would have wanted you to be a pallbearer."
"I would be honoured," Darcy replied against emotions gathering in his breast.
After some more details were discussed, a sombre silence descended on the
two. As Darcy was preparing to leave, he said, "If there is anything I can do to be of assistance…"
Hurst eagerly accepted. "I do not have much experience in matters such as these. I know how to manage my accounts well enough, but Charles purchased
an estate."
Darcy swallowed the lump in his throat, remembering Bingley's exuberance for it. "Wortham," he whispered hoarsely.
Mr. Hurst nodded. "I imagine it will have to be sold off or something of that nature. I would appreciate your expertise in that." He hesitated for a moment, before adding, "There is also the issue of the servants. I am afraid Mrs. Hurst is not up to the task just now."
"Mrs. Darcy will be in town tomorrow, and will help you find situations for all of them." He cleared his throat. "Snyder, Bingley's valet…" He was uncertain how to raise the subject, but knowing his valet, Franklin, was a friend of the man, he felt obliged to inquire after him specifically.
To his surprise, Hurst replied, "We have not seen hide nor hair of him or his family…" He shook his head slowly again. "I guess I am not surprised.
Caroline spent the entire night screaming about having all the servants
dismissed without recommendation. She blames the fire on them."
Taken aback, Darcy asked, "Are there many others… missing?" An accurate servant count was important; they could have easily perished in the fire.
"Snyder's relations and a few others." He looked up Darcy, and noticing his alarm, added. "We searched the rubble and found a few others near the servant quarters."
Darcy nodded. The details did not need to be spoken. "Any servants you can not house here are welcome at Arryndale until new positions can be found."
Mr. Hurst graciously accepted the offer. Since there was nothing else that could be resolved that night, Darcy took his leave, with a promise to return the
following day.
As promised, Elizabeth and Georgiana arrived at Arryndale the following day.
It was a bit past noon when the Darcy carriage rolled up to the house, causing Darcy a fair amount of consternation; but his relief at seeing them both alive and well brushed aside any ill tempered thoughts.
After seeing their trunks unloaded, and taking a short luncheon, Elizabeth
dressed in clothes most suitable for mourning, and accompanied her husband to the Hursts' home. On the way, Darcy informed Elizabeth of the plans and Mr.
Hurst's request she assist in placing Bingley's servants and arranging their travel to their new situations.
As they neared their destination, Elizabeth gasped loudly. Too late, Darcy
realized they were passing the ruins. He had meant to follow a different route, but in his haste, forgot to inform his coachman.
"Oh, Fitzwilliam!" Elizabeth cried. "That is not…"
Darcy quickly gathered her to him, trying to shield her from the grim scene.
"Forgive me, dearest. I had not wanted you to see that." He silently berated himself for his inattentiveness.
"I will be well, Fitzwilliam. It only took me by surprise," she said after taking a moment to collect herself. Then, unable to help herself, she looked out the window, straining her neck to see the ash
es once again. "All of their things…
reduced to embers. And Mr. Bingley..." Tears formed in her eyes, which she dabbed away with handkerchief.
A few moments later, they were climbing the steps to the Hursts' townhouse, where again they were shown to the drawing room. They were greeted
cordially by Mr. Hurst, and then Mrs. Hurst. Miss Bingley also gave a teary greeting, until she saw Elizabeth.
Upon seeing the woman who had ruined all her hopes of becoming Mrs. Darcy,
Miss Bingley seemingly transformed into another being. "You!" she cried as she stood. "How dare you show yourself here!" She marched quickly towards Elizabeth, shocking everyone in the room. "This is all your fault!" she screamed.
Before anyone comprehended what was happening, Elizabeth felt her cheek
burning, and she was stumbling backwards.
Darcy managed to catch her before she fell to the floor, and after taking a moment to ensure she was well, he turned a thunderous glare towards Miss
Bingley. "You forget yourself, Madam!" he roared.
"It is all her fault!" came the insistent screech. "Her and that strumpet of a sister! They killed my brother! They killed Charles! He was your friend! How can you defend her?"
As Miss Bingley's accusations filled the room, a mortified Mr. and Mrs. Hurst jumped from their seats and inserted themselves between the Darcys and Miss Bingley. "Caroline, you know that is not true." Mrs. Hurst said, trying to calm her sister. She looked to Darcy, pleading for his understanding, despite Miss Bingley's continued rant.
Unfortunately for the Hursts, Elizabeth's flaming red cheek kept Darcy's ire well stoked, and with hardly a curt goodbye, he gathered his wife in his arms and left the house.
Once back at Arryndale, Darcy saw that a cold cloth was applied to Elizabeth's cheek. As his wife lay on the chaise, he paced back and forth, muttering oaths against Miss Bingley and the Hursts.
Having heard enough, or perhaps simply tired of watching her husband antics, she discarded the cloth and stood. "Fitzwilliam, cease this immediately," she said loudly. "I am well."
"She was out of line!" was the sharp retort. "We offer to assist them, and this is the thanks we receive?" He snorted. "I shall attend Bingley's funeral, out of respect for our friendship, but that is the last time my card shall grace their salver. Miss Bingley can go to the devil for all I care!"
Elizabeth rolled her eyes, and then approached him. "Fitzwilliam!" she said sharply. Certain she had his attention, she said calmly, "Miss Bingley is mourning her brother, and trying to make sense of her loss. Can you not lend her a little understanding?"
He opened his mouth to speak, but then closed it again. After a brief pause, in almost a petulant tone, he said, "She should not have struck you."
"Perhaps. But if she had not, what excuse would you have for holding me so intimately in their home? I believe seeing that diminished any satisfaction Miss Bingley might have received in striking me."
Darcy could not but chuckle. "Are you truly unharmed?"
"I am quite well. If the Hursts and Miss Bingley apologize, I see no reason why we should not continue to help them."
"You are beginning to sound like Jane," Darcy teased. He pulled his wife close to him.
With the arch of a brow, Elizabeth replied, "Shall I consider that a compliment?
I have heard from your own lips, Jane is very wise." She laid her head against his rumbling chest.
After the dinner hour, the somewhat anticipated call from Mr. Hurst came. He was shown into Darcy's study.
"My sincerest thanks in seeing me, and at such an hour." Mr. Hurst said, his voice and demeanour full of contrition. When he received only a curt nod from Darcy, he hastily continued. "My wife and I offer our sincerest apologies for our sister's behaviour. I do hope Mrs. Darcy came to no harm."
"She is well," Darcy clipped.
Mr. Hurst squirmed in place, enviously eying the chair near the desk that had not been offered. "I… I…" He shook his head and sighed heavily, clearly uncertain what to do or say next.
Taking pity on the man, Darcy stood from behind his desk. "My wife has convinced me, out of respect for my friendship to Bingley, to accept your
apology, if it was offered."
Mr. Hurst seemingly let out a breath he had been holding. "I trust Miss Bingley will wish to personally apologize to my wife." He raised a brow in question.
Mr. Hurst nodded violently. "Of course. She is feeling very… ashamed of her behaviour," he stammered.
"Very well. My wife and I shall depart with the rest of the funeral procession tomorrow." He pointed to a chair, which Mr. Hurst gratefully accepted. After seating himself, Darcy asked for the details in any progress made in settling Bingley's estate. To his surprise, Mr. Hurst flushed.
With a rough clearing of his throat, Mr. Hurst said, "It seems Charles had no intentions of seeing his investment diminished, nor the estate divided, and made provisions in his will. The estate is entailed." At Darcy's look of shock, he shrugged. "The heir will be the firstborn male of either Mrs. Hurst and myself, or Miss Bingley. Should neither of us produce an heir, it will be
inherited by one of his cousins in Scarborough." With a smirk, he added, "A bit ironic, is it not?"
Darcy could not help the chuckle that escaped. Perhaps there was more to Mr.
Hurst than he let on.
"I… uh…" Mr. Hurst hesitated. "As one of the trustees of the estate, I would like to spend the rest of our mourning at Wortham. I… um… was hoping you
could perhaps uh… That is… I know very little about running an estate."
Darcy stopped the man's stammering with a wave of his hand. "Mrs. Darcy and I intended to return to Pemberley after the funeral. It would be no
inconvenience to remain at Wortham a few more days, provided…"
A clearly grateful Mr. Hurst interrupted. "My sister will be on her best behaviour." He snorted. "I control her account and her allowance now."
The gentlemen talked a few more minutes before Mr. Hurst stood. "I thank you again for receiving me, but I believe you have long desired my absence." Darcy
saw Mr. Hurst to the door, and then rejoined his wife and sister in the music room.
The following morning, the Darcy carriage joined Bingley's funeral procession to Wortham. They arrived before the other funeral guests, to get the unpleasant business between Elizabeth and Miss Bingley resolved.
Elizabeth and Darcy were shown into the front parlour, where they were
greeted gracefully, if not a bit more deferentially by Mr. and Mrs. Hurst.
Though she required prompting from her sister, Miss Bingley stepped forward and offered a well spoken, if not entirely sincere, apology to Elizabeth.
With that business completed, everyone turned their attention the upcoming
events.
Darcy saw his wife to their coach, and then returned to the house to convey the coffin to the funeral carriage. At the same time, Mr. Hurst checked over the horses, while Mrs. Hurst and Miss Bingley saw the house was properly closed up.
Then, after securing the casket, Darcy joined his wife. As they neared the
church in Bingley's London parish, the bell began to toll; four and twenty in all, reminding everyone the solemn purpose of their journey.
Any levity that might otherwise have been present during the carriage ride, was easily dispelled by the reminder of the black clothing or a simple glance at the black carriage that led them.
It was a two day trip to Warwickshire, but upon arriving at Wortham, Darcy
once again assisted in carrying the casket into the house's front parlour, while Elizabeth assisted Mrs. Hurst and Miss Bingley in arranging the rest of the room, along with the tea and biscuits, for the viewing.
As the Bingleys were relatively new to the area, the number of visitors was small. Only a few of the tenants showed themselves, and a neighbour or two, whom Bingley had presumably met on previous visits to the estate. With so
/> few visitors, the day after their arrival at Wortham, Charles Bingley was laid to rest in the chapel yard.
After a short service, the gathered men moved outside to the grave site. Taking one of the ropes, Darcy carefully assisted in lowering the casket into the
ground. A lump formed in his in his throat as the vicar read the committal
words. "We therefore commit his body to the ground; earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust; in the sure and certain hope of the Resurrection to eternal life."
Memories from the course of his association with Bingley flooded his mind.
Regretfully, he remembered his cool greeting when they first met. He had
grudgingly accepted the engagement to counsel a young man as a favour to his
father's friend. In return, Bingley had offered him friendship. And in the end, all Darcy could do was offer the handful of dirt he held in his hand.
In his turn, he threw the dirt over the wooden box. "Thank you, Charles," he mouthed. Goodbye somehow seemed inappropriate. He would always
remember his friend. His goofy smile, and his jovial spirit; at every ball, he would hear Bingley's encouraging him to dance; and he would miss receiving
his friend's blot filled letters.
After the last mourner said his farewell, the men quietly returned to the house, while the chapel bell once again pealed the mourning song.
Some of the guests departed from Wortham immediately, others remained until the following day, until only the Darcys remained with the Hursts.
Darcy did his best to assist Mr. Hurst in getting his bearings on estate
management. The steward, though espousing a few misguided ideas, seemed
competent and eager to carry out the new owner's instructions. Unfortunately, Mr. Hurst - an indolent man by nature - was a more difficult student than
Bingley. Where Bingley had been eager to look over the estate and meet the
tenants, Hurst saw it as a chore, tired of it quickly, and gave airs of not wanting to be bothered by their problems. The difference was both disturbing and
saddening. How long would Bingley's dream survive under such lacklustre