Love Calls Again

by Lucianne Elsworth

"Is it not a bit… hasty?"

  "Fitzwilliam. I have spent more than five years pining for this woman. I do not wish to pine for her any more. You must know I sincerely wish I could wait, a sen'night will have to do. A fortnight at most. No more."

  "What is it exactly that you wish that I do?"

  "I must go to London, Pemberley and Longbourn, in that order."

  Fitzwilliam sighed. He helped himself to some port, sat on the couch, thought for a moment trying quickly to find an excuse that would spare him the trip to Longbourn, and answered,

  "You do not expect me to do the journey to Pemberley on horseback, do you? I am no longer a lad."

  "No, of course not. Only to London. We could travel in a carriage to Pemberley."

  "I can go with you as far as Pemberley. Then I shall go to Matlock. I must visit with my sister and mother."

  "Pray, I fear I shall need your company later on. You see I am planning to take Elizabeth and Georgiana to London before the wedding, and stay in my townhouse. You know, to purchase gowns and the like. Surely Mrs Bingley would like to come too. I will need your company. I cannot travel with three ladies, and I do not wish to take Bingley with me. He has grown rather…"

  "Stupid."

  "I would say boring."

  Fitzwilliam chuckled. He took his right hand to his face then to his unshaved whiskers and then he opened his mouth to speak. Instead, biting the tip of his thumb, he paused again as in deep contemplation. Finally he said "I am not sure, Darcy. I am a bit tired. I need to rest."

  "I see. I understand."

  "Do not get me wrong. I would love to…"

  Stepping decidedly forward, Darcy did not allow him to say another word. "Then, I thank you. I really do. I do not think I could do it if you are not with me, Fitzwilliam. You are my only friend. Besides it is imperative that you be there when I ask for her hand, for you are to be my best man."

  Colonel Fitzwilliam froze. His best man? No, that was unthinkable. He could bear his marriage to Elizabeth at a distance. But up there, in the altar. That would be unnecessary torture. He needed a little time to compose an excuse. "I beg your pardon?"

  "My best man. No one else would do!"

  "Bingley was your best man at your wedding as you had been his!"

  "Exactly. That is why I wish you to be with me this time. Fitzwilliam. You are my brother!"

  "What about Geoffrey?" he offered.

  "Geoffrey? You cannot be serious. I only see Geoffrey at funerals and weddings!"

  Darcy stood staring at him uncomprehendingly. Fitzwilliam looked horrified, as if he had asked him to face the devil. What had come over his cousin? Why was he reluctant to stand up with him at his wedding? Did he not approve of his marriage?

  Fitzwilliam noticed the uneasiness on Darcy's demeanour and immediately shifted to complaisance.

  "There is no persuading you to change your mind, is there?" he asked Darcy impatiently.

  "Why should I? You do not wish to stand up with me at church?"

  "I do. I am honoured."

  "Very well, then. Come now. Leave that port. Let us celebrate with something better." Darcy poured his best brandy and handed a glass to his cousin.

  Fitzwilliam reached out for his drink, leaving his port aside. He then reflected aloud: "At least get me a beautiful bridesmaid."

  "Most beautiful, cousin. Still, she is not a maiden, but a matron. 'Twill be Mrs Bingley. Better luck, next time."

  "Well. I cannot say I could be any luckier; Mrs Bingley will do."

  Darcy laughed. Fitzwilliam could flirt with Mrs Reynolds were she the only woman available. "She is a beautiful woman. Is she not?"

  "Indeed. Most beautiful."

  ~•~

  The day of the Bingleys' departure eventually arrived. Elizabeth submitted to the arrangement which so fiercely counteracted her wishes with more reluctance than she had expected to feel. Her dejection was almost a degree away from unhappiness, so great was the perturbation of her spirits and her impatience to be wedded to her Mr Darcy. Her unwillingness to quit his presence was tolerated only by the prospect it hastening their reunion, which was her only restorative to calmness; and at the moment of parting her grief on that score was excessive. Mr Darcy's affliction was hardly less; to any witness, their separation would seem anything short than eternal.

  When the Matlock horses were announced, Elizabeth's heart gave a jerk inside her chest. She knew her carriage would be next.

  "Well then. I suppose we will see each other soon enough, Miss Bennet," said Lady Matlock with a fond smile.

  "Indeed, your Ladyship."

  "Oh, you must call me Ellen, now my dear. You must know I am the closest thing Darcy has to a mother."

  "I thank you, Ellen. Pray, call me Elizabeth."

  "Well, then, Elizabeth. We shall have a heart-to-heart talk next time we see each other. Till then, I must beg you to release my son from your power. I do not like to pry in other people's affairs and I understand that this is a subject that must be rather difficult for you, but it cannot be helped," she said while sending a look askance towards Richard. "They love each other, that pair. I would loathe to have them quarrel over a woman."

  "Ma'am, I…"

  "Ellen, dearest. I will be your aunt, now, my dear. Fear not. Your secret is safe with me. Still, make it very clear to Richard that you no longer hold him in your affections. He must move on, you know."

  "Yes, ma'am."

  "Ellen."

  "Ellen."

  "Very well. I wish you a good journey. Our farewell will not be for a long time. Until then, Elizabeth." And she kissed her in the cheek most affectionately and was gone, leaving Elizabeth in turmoil.

  Once they were gone, Mr Darcy approached her.

  "Will you walk with me to that font?"

  "I fear I cannot, sir. I am not feeling well."

  "I am not feeling well either. I can not bear to part with you, Miss Bennet."

  They sat on a wooden bench under a tree in the garden, the rest of the party leaving the surroundings to afford them a few minutes of intimacy.

  "You do not go to town on horseback, do you?" she asked a bit worried.

  "I do. Only to London. Then I shall take the carriage to Pemberley."

  Out of the corner of his eye, Darcy caught a short glimpse of the whole party, which had moved to the other side of the house.

  "There is no chance of my seeing you for too long. I am afraid I will not bear it," he said, struggling to compose himself.

  "When will I see you again, exactly?" Elizabeth's voice threatened to break.

  "That I cannot tell. The special license will take at least a fortnight. Then three days to Pemberley and a few days there, and then another three days to Longbourn."

  "You shall be exhausted."

  "I will not rest until I am with you."

  "Will you stay at Longbourn at your return?"

  "Do you wish me to?" he said, taking her hand to his lips.

  "Of course."

  "Then I shall. With your father's permission, that is." He pressed her hand to his chest and whispered softly: "I shall not sleep at night until I lay with you again. I can only sleep after I have watched you breathing beside me. What wretched nights await me!"

  "Oh, this is unbearable!" she cried and, in a harsh act of impudence, flung her arms around him. He knew he should disentangle her from his neck, for they were in full view of the party, but he had fallen in such distress that he could not bear not do it. He most tenderly kissed her on the lips and caressed her hair. Then, lovingly, whispered sweet endearments into her ear. Darcy's behaviour in taking leave of her, his wretchedness to go at least equal to hers, his melancholy, his unwillingness to finally let go, so like a lover, so unlike himself, greatly disturbed those who witnessed the scene. His affliction in their separation was indubitable, and when considering the violent sorrow which was gripping his heart, Darcy's love for Lizzy was impossible to deny.

  At length, he gathered strength and gently
detached her from him. Elizabeth's eyes were red and swollen from crying, and it seemed tears were even then restrained with difficulty. Her countenance uncheerful, she avoided looking at him again, could not speak to him either, and after pressing his hand, she rose. He followed her, ever so slowly beginning to walk the path towards the party that was already waiting to leave. On helping her into the carriage, Darcy did not kiss her hand, nor did he look at her in the eye, lest he should lose composure.

  Fitzwilliam remained detached from the whole situation, his figure erect, surveying her departure with equal wretchedness, only his emotions he would not display.

  ~•~

  After Elizabeth arrived at her paternal home in Longbourn, she immediately was received by a much flustered Mrs Bennet.

  "Lizzy! Come at once! Look at what has come for you. All this correspondence! Directly from France!"

  "Pray, mama. Of what are you talking?"

  "See for yourself. Come. There must be more than thirty letters. All in the same handwriting! A gentleman's handwriting, Lizzy."

  Elizabeth looked incredulously at the heap of letters addressed to her, in the same handwriting.

  "Colonel Fitzwilliam is the man. Look, his name is here. Is it possible that he is not dead after all?"

  She did not bother to answer her question, but inspected the letters thoroughly. They were yellowish and torn. Most of them had been dated four years ago.

  "Apparently, the Colonel had written to you whilst he was away in the peninsula, but his letters did not reach the continent till after the war was over. Did you have an understanding at least?"

  Elizabeth was speechless, nailed to the ground, pale and confused. What would she say to her mother? How would she explain all this correspondence?

  "Lizzy! This gentleman was positively smitten with you! Did he make a proposal before he left for the peninsula? Oh he must have, though you never told me! Why! Otherwise he would not have felt free to write to you! Oh Lizzy. The son of an Earl! What a gentleman! How good is this to you! You must write to his family instantly and inquire after him. But first, of course, you must read the letters. Come girl. Sit here. Open this one."

  "Nay, mama. I shall read them upstairs."

  She zealously grabbed the yellowish packet and without a minute to lose, headed for her room, placed it on a small chiffonier, sat in one corner of her bed and stared at the pile in bewilderment, unsure whether it was her right to open the letters. After all, although they had been written by her fiancé, now she was promised to someone else.

  What would she find in them, but love words, promises of loyalties, endearments that she would have been delighted to have read whilst she had been promised to him? Had she received them then, she would have waited for his return.

  She noticed she was trembling, wondering whether he would receive any of the letters she had written to him now. She blushed at the thought of it. Colonel Fitzwiliam was such a passionate gentleman. How would he bear to read of love and passion from his cousin's betrothed?

  Quite unexpectedly, she felt her mind invaded with memories of the time spent with Richard, while in Longbourn. She remembered one of many occasions in which they had been left alone in a room by a careless Kitty. Richard had pounced on her the minute they had been left alone. They were sitting on the lovers' seat and ended up on the rug on the floor, the hem of her dress raised to her waist. Then, all of a sudden he had taken her in his arms and carried her upstairs to her bedchamber. She had thought he would make her his, then. But no. Instead, he had loved her, sweetly, gently, as only he knew. So many times they had been left unchaperoned! He would have deflowered her had it not been for his strong self-control. Lord, those memories were unsettling! How would she manage to overcome her feelings for him! Would they shadow her marriage life for ever?

  With a trembling hand she reached out and snatched one of the letters. Holding it in her grip, she slowly broke the seal, unfolded the paper and spread it on the bed.

  Richard told her of his misery of being so far from her. Distance seemed to shorten when he wrote to her, he said, although he knew it would be well nigh impossible that she should receive the letters ere the war was over. He mused of their meeting upon his return, both of them lying in front of a fireplace, reading his letters together. He told her how much he missed her, loved her, longed for her touch. When the writing turned too passionate, she laid back and held the writing paper on her chest. Soon, tears welled in her eyes and bitterness overcame her.

  "Richard!" she sobbed. "Twill not do!"

  Suddenly the misery of those years when he was away and in danger pounded over her. That horrible year in which she would have given anything in exchange for a word from him! The wounded that had returned had brought news of terrible conditions, freezing cold, no food, but no news from him. Every day she had waited for the post, and every day there had been nothing. And she had felt as if she was going mad with concern and fear. Albeit she had endeavoured not to lose hope, if the good God have chosen that Richard should not survive, it would be for a reason. But she had longed to feel something, even if only pain.

  She was the one that was wounded. But if there was a wound, she must try to heal it. If there was someone who could cure her, she must search till she found him. And she knew where to look for him. Had she known he would survive, things would have been different. She would not have dared to love the impossible, the unreachable.

  She cried over each one of the letters Richard had written and read each one with same tenderness. What is the meaning of this? Are not my feelings secured yet? What does this longing I am feeling mean? Am I to be torn by the love for two men?

  She fell asleep, surrounded by a heap of torn paper. When she woke up, it was dark and she was sleeping in her bed. Someone had put the correspondence away and undressed her. Most surely it had been Hill. She noticed a tray with some food and cold tea by her bed. She tried a little of the tea, and nibbled at a sandwich. Then she went back to sleep, knowing only too well what her dreams would be about.

  When she woke up she was crying. Was it for Mr Darcy's or the Colonel's sake, she could not tell.

  ~•~

  The journey to London was made uneventfully, Darcy having returned to his usual self, only a bit melancholy, but otherwise cheerful. Fitzwilliam was perfectly amiable as if nothing had happened. Georgiana followed the two gentleman in a carriage with her companion and her cousin Sarah.

  Once in London, the special license obtained, the ladies assumed the task of preparing the house, and particularly the Mistress's bedchamber, for the reception of the bride. They took Darcy and Fitzwilliam everywhere in search of this and that which could not be done without, and even suggested Darcy to purchase some new gowns for themselves. Georgiana persuaded him to give Elizabeth a pianoforte as a wedding gift, so they would be able to practice duets on their own instruments. On their second day in Town, they visited several jewellery shops to purchase the perfect ring, for he did not wish to gift his Elizabeth that which Anne had so miserably worn, even though it had been the very ring his mother had worn so happily before her. He finally made his choice, to Georgiana's delight, the ring his sister had set eyes on.

  "This would suit her admiringly, Wills. She is not used to wearing anything too grand. This ring matches her modesty." Georgiana could not be more right. The ring, bearing a beautiful sapphire, was both delicate and modest. And at the same time, the colour of the stone suited Elizabeth's passionate nature.

  On arriving home, that afternoon, Darcy sat at his desk in his study and producing the box containing the wedding ring, he opened it and inspected the jewel thoroughly, his imagination flying rapidly to the moment he would slide the ring onto her delicate finger. If one could have witnessed his dreamy demeanour at such an exertion, one could have thought, judging by the dumb expression on his face, that the man was the most stupidly besotted fellow on earth and the exceedingly proud Mr Darcy of Pemberley was merely a man that fairly resembled him.

&n
bsp; So much was his character changed, that he proceeded to write a most extraordinarily passionate letter to Elizabeth, which he meant to send her via his sister.

  Dearest Elizabeth,

  I am wretched, my love. I cannot sleep or take nourishment, or even breathe without you, dearest. And there are still three weeks to go until I see your beloved face again. I write without any intention of paining you, but the truth is, I miss my life. Be not alarmed, my beloved Elizabeth, by the apprehension I might cease to live for want of you. I am determined to live for the happiness of both of us. I have vowed to restrain my words from flowing so violently enamoured and I write with the intention of reassuring you of my respect. But it will not do. Your touch, your skin to my skin, your full lips upon my own is all I ever need to survive. I must, in all honesty, write that I am very much repentant of having tasted you so freely, for now that I no longer have you, I can barely go on with my routine. Had anyone ever told me I would be so much in love, I would have laughed at the fellow or most certainly taken offence. But my love, I am hopelessly lost without your breathing in my bed at night. I fell under the necessity of confessing myself thus. If this is cause of any offence to you, I can only say I am sorry. The necessity must be obeyed as I once told you.

  As to my business in London, be reassured, madam, that everything is going according to plan. I am now readying the townhouse for the reception of my bride, and you must understand that I do not comprehend a great deal on the subject. Were it not for my sister and my cousin Sarah, you would have probably found the house in the same condition it has been ever since I was born. I know not how they have managed to make use of my money in so unrestrained a manner. But on seeing the results, I can only be thankful to them, and I only add I can hardly wait to see the day you enter this house as its mistress and appreciate all the excellent work the ladies have done for our benefit.

  And to this reflection, my love, is my pen now to be employed. That I, as well as you, shall dream of that blessed day, until we meet again. I will only add, God bless you.

  Fitzwilliam Darcy

  Scarcely had he finished writing, when a servant informed him there was a lady in the hall inquiring after him. What must his astonishment have been when he was told the name of his caller: Miss Caroline Bingley. He had of course intended to be surprised, to receive her unchaperoned and on the eve of dusk was rather compromising. Unfortunately, none of his relatives were at home; Richard and Georgiana together with Lady Sarah, had gone to Matlock house for dinner, and Mrs Annesley was already in bed. So, he was compelled to ask his manservant to call Mrs Annesley to the French Parlour, where he intended to face his visitor.