Fitzwilliam Darcy lookedout the window across the estate as the late afternoon summer sun began to descend behind the woods of Pemberley. Attempting to regulate his breathing, he gripped the windowsill to steady himself before turning to take in his surroundings. The golden light danced across the elegant room with the lavender walls complementing the darker plum of the canopy and drapes. The rich furniture brought in elements of nature, as did the painting of Pemberley’s gardens hanging above the settee.
Yet, no matter the beauty of the chamber itself, he could not escape the obvious. The long-ignored scent of illness was now permeating the room of the only woman he had ever loved. He abandoned his post and walked tentatively over to where she lay. Her small frame seemed engulfed in the mahogany four-poster bed, the pillows and feather quilts swallowing her up. He gently sat down on the edge as she opened her eyes and slowly smiled at him.
“Fitzwilliam.”
“Yes, Mummy,” he said, trying to ignore the catch in his throat.
“Come closer, Son.” She tried to move the counterpane but in her weakened state was only able to rest her hand on the covers. “I would speak with you.” Her breathing was measured and she seemed determined to not allow the moment to pass before she imparted the words he needed to know.
Unable to speak, he anxiously leaned in closer fearing what she might say.
Lady Anne Darcy took a deep breath and began the speech he dreaded. “Wills, as much as you nor your father wish to acknowledge it, my days are coming to a close.”
“Mum—”
“Please—” A fit of coughing caused young Darcy to rush to the end table and pour her a glass of water. He gently held it to her lips.
“Drink.” His brown eyes took in her withered form. He realized her blue eyes, once filled with laughter, were now dull and tired. Her golden tresses, which before had shone like the sun, hung limply in a plait beside her. Her skin was pale, almost translucent, as she took a sip of the water through her parched lips.
He pulled the cup away and she smiled. “Thank you, Fitzwilliam. You have always been my joy.” She grimaced as he plumped her pillows and straightened the counterpane before she continued. “Some mothers never understood. ‘A child should be seen and not heard’ or ‘Nannies rear children, not mothers.’” She raised her hand with great will and touched his face. “They could not understand the love I feel for you, my sweet William. Since the moment you were placed in my arms, you have made me the happiest and proudest of mothers.” A tear escaped and streamed down her cheek. “Your goodness and honesty are such examples to others. I am grateful our little Georgie will be guided by you. You will grow strong as your father—to be the master of Pemberley. Always remember who you are—and the people who came before you.”
“Yes, Mummy.” He could not stop his own tears and lay down next to her.
“There, there, my sweet Wills. There is no shame in crying.” She ran her hands through his dark curls and wiped away his tears. “You know the love I have for you will not end in death. Know that I want you to be happy. Know whatever choices you make in life will be right for you. You have both duty to Pemberley and family. But, you also have a duty to yourself.” He lay there as she began to weakly sing their favorite song:
“The pale moon was rising above the green mountain,
The sun was declining beneath the blue sea;
When I strayed with my love to the pure crystal fountain,
That stands in the beautiful Vale of Tralee…”
Her voice faded as she gently reached for his hand. “I love you, Fitzwilliam.”
“I love you, too.”
He snuggled closely to her until he could hear her heartbeat and the rasp of her breath. His heart was light in this almost perfect moment: to be alone with his mother before she left the Earth, drinking in her love and attention.
* * *
“Mr. Darcy. Mr. Darcy, sir, come at once. Lady Anne calls for you!”
George Darcy woke suddenly and rolled over in the darkness, struggling with the counterpane wrapped around his ankles. He heard the barking of his sister through the door leading to his wife’s chambers and was at once running toward the clamor. Lady Catherine was already there, berating his beloved to find the strength to pull through.
Anne’s eyes opened and closed slowly. “George, Fitzwilliam, Georgiana…”
“I am here, my love,” George said tenderly, pushing past his wife’s sister and placing a kiss on her wrist. “I am here.”
Fitzwilliam rushed into the room, knelt beside his father, and laid his head next to his mother’s small frame. “Mummy? Mummy, please stay. Please don’t die!” His sobs were muffled in the counterpane.
“Oh, George,” Anne said in a far-off whisper. “Tell Georgiana I loved her. Let her know of me—her mother—her guardian angel.”
“Anne, my bride. Do not leave us. Dr. Griggs is arriving from London. Wait for one more day and all will be well. Please, my love. Try.”
Lady Catherine was taken abackby the scene in the presence of the servants but held her tongue in respect of her brother and his impending grief. She turned her head to avoid the intimate exchange when she noticed a letter on her sister’s writing table addressed to “Fitzwilliam” and saw the wax pressed with Anne’s seal. Her curiosity piqued, she only wrestled with her conscience long enough to hear Fitzwilliam say, “Mummy, I will protect Georgie. I promise.”
As Lady Anne Darcy breathed her last, Lady Catherine thrust her sister’s final thoughts for her son into the sleeve of her own dressing gown. She pulled back her shoulders, raised her chin, and strode over to view her sister for the last time.
