I have also given Master Jonathan the gift you sent for him, with which he was delighted, of course, though he was most disappointed not to have you in person. I am not sure how much of him you would have seen had you come, however, for he is largely being kept to the nursery, presumably to spare him from the general malaise in the house.
I should not object to such a reprieve myself. Much though I esteem my family here, the dismal circumstances have made poor companions of us all. Fitzwilliam has written to say he is delayed with imperative business at his barracks. Ashby will likely only come for thefuneral, for he has never had much attachment to Rosings. My uncle has not made his plans known. This place has never seemed more remote.
I miss you more than words can express, Elizabeth. I have not heard from you—which you must not take as a complaint, for I know you prefer to add to your letters over a number of days—but I miss your voice. I miss your good sense and your teasing. Being here without you to talk to recalls me disagreeably to the time before you were mine. Thank God, that is in the past. I count the days until I am home with you and feel no compunction for desiring it, for it would be a mercy if Lady Catherine were released from her suffering sooner rather than later. From what I saw of her this evening, it cannot be much longer.
I trust you are receiving sufficient attention from our guests to allay your impatience and not overburdening yourself. I know you will laugh at me for it, but I cannot refrain from reminding you of your promise to send an express should any need occur.
Good night, dearest Elizabeth. I am away to my bed—with any luck, to dream you are there with me. Pray, take every care of yourself and our beloved child.
As ever, I adore you.
Fitzwilliam
He tucked the leaf he had plucked from the vine in the conservatory into the folds of the letter and sealed it securely within. Then he climbed into bed and succumbed to the blissful oblivion of sleep.
Saturday 13th March 1813, Kent
Four days had passed after Lady Catherine succumbed before Fitzwilliam was able to escape his duties and journey to Rosings Park. His father remained indisposed after a recent relapse, and Ashby had been indecently eager to claim Fitzwilliam’s delay as his own; thus,the two brothers had not arrived until the eve of her ladyship’s interment.
The funeral had been what most funerals are: gloomy and tedious. On this occasion, thanks to Mr Collins’ interminable orations, it was also so protracted as to prevent half the mourners travelling home that day, forcing them instead to trespass overnight upon Rosings’ empty rooms and Anne’s less-than-enthusiastic hospitality.
Darcy, having been there the longest and being, therefore, the most desirous of leaving, was by far the least forbearing of the delay. Fitzwilliam was therefore surprised not to find him in better spirits as they readied to leave after breakfast the next day. His mind, however, seemed fixed on one thing and one thing only.
“I am certain all is well, Darcy,” Fitzwilliam said as he trotted down the stairs ahead of him. “Her letter has obviously been lost in the post.”
“They cannot all have been lost in the post.”
“Is she likely to have written more than one? You have not been gone a fortnight.”
Darcy’s voice, when he answered some five or six steps farther down, was divertingly peevish. “Yes, it is likely she wrote more than one.”
Fitzwilliam inferred from this that Darcy had written several, and his concern was founded mostly on disgruntlement that his wife was not as mawkish as he.
He stopped at the foot of the stairs, a short distance from the gaggle of mourners milling about by the front door, donning their coats and hats and bidding their hosts farewell. “If aught were amiss you would have been informed. In cases such as these, no news is good news.”
“No news is damned troubling, as well you know.”
“She was in perfect health when you saw her twelve days ago. Men are sent to war on less reliable information than that.” Darcy looked wholly unmoved; thus, he added, “Have you heard from nobody else at Pemberley?”
“No. I have written to them all, but too recently I fear, for I have yet to receive any replies. I hope to find something awaiting me in Lond—” He ended abruptly. “Why are you grinning at me in that stupid manner?”
“Who do you mean byall?”
“Georgiana, Bingley, your grandmother, the senior staff.”
Fitzwilliam could not constrain his laughter. The poor boy was a lovesick fool.
“What is this about Bingley?” Ashby enquired, peeling away from the crowd by the door and ambling over to join them. “What has the idiot done now?”
Darcy did not answer. Fitzwilliam glanced heavenward in exasperation. There had persisted an iciness between the pair of them these past two days of which he was grown more than a little weary. “Darcy has written to him to enquire as to the state of play at Pemberley.”
“Indeed!” Ashby snorted. “That man is more trouble than he is worth. Still, with any luck, he will be gone by the time you get back, Cousin.”
“Darcy? A moment of your time before you go, if you would?” Anne called.
It was a fortuitous interruption, forestalling the angry retort heralded by Darcy’s steely glare. Fitzwilliam wished Ashby would cease provoking him, but knowing his brother’s petulance was directly proportional to the injury Darcy’s recent letter had done to his pride, he thought it more probable that it would continue for some time to come.
“I doubt Bingley will be gone,” he said quietly once Darcy had turned to speak to Anne. “Indeed, I think I have understood that he has not much idea of ever returning to Netherfield again.”
