Page 125 of Bitterness of Spirit & The Painting

“Yes, my darling, please burn it. Just as it is, take it down and put it in the fireplace. Promise me.”

“I promise,” he said, confused, his heart aching with despair. He moved his head nearer to her, and so did the little girl. The woman took their hands and joined them in hers, over her chest.

A short while later, their father took them both out of the room, while the doctor and the maid remained to attend to the patient.

The girl was taken away by her governess, but the boy refused to depart. He remained there, outside the door, for hours, until he was allowed to join his mother again. It was a ritual that repeated again and again in the days that followed, and nothing could deter the boy from it.

A week later, Lady Anne Darcy passed away, leaving behind a deep sorrow in everyone who had known her and an inconsolable, heartbroken family.

Despite her long illness and the weakness that had kept her to her bed for the last year, despite the doctor’s sceptical reports and warnings, the tragedy devastated her husband and children. Her daughter—only three years old—barely knew what was happening, but her suffering was so profound that she fell ill for several weeks afterwards. Dreading another loss her father, George Darcy, barely left her side, oblivious to everyone and everything but his daughter’s recovery.

Fitzwilliam Darcy, at the age of fifteen, took on the burden of the family’s sorrow, as well as the duties and responsibilities related to his name. He felt it was his responsibility and furthermore, it was what his beloved mother expected of him. His goal was to become worthy of her trust, and to keep her alive by honouring his promises to her.

Amid all that terrible distress, worried for his sister and his father, diligently studying and learning the business of the estate, he barely had time to indulge his own suffering. He was so busy fulfilling his mother’s expectations and all the other promises he had made to her, that he completely forgot about the painting and her plea to burn it.

Chapter 1

Pemberley, early June 1812

Fitzwilliam Darcy walked along the edge of Pemberley’s lake absently, as he had done many times in the last two months. Despite being surrounded by so much beauty, he felt nothing but sadness and loneliness. He had come home directly from Kent.

Georgiana was still in London, Bingley was away visiting a friend in Bath. His cousin, Colonel Fitzwilliam, had been summoned to his regiment, which was a blessing after all, since his cousin spoke of Elizabeth too much. Painfully much. There was no doubt that Richard was enchanted by Elizabeth. If he could afford to choose with his heart, he would have likely pursued her. And she seemed to favour him too.

Most certainly she would not have refused Richard as she did him. “The last man in the world,” she had called him. Her words had cut his heart. How could the woman he loved so much, despise him so deeply? And how had he misjudged her true feelings so utterly and completely?

He wondered if his letter had changed her opinion of him enough for her to regret her unfair accusations regarding Wickham. Or at least had it persuaded her not to believe the scoundrel’s lies? When it came to Bingley and Miss Bennet she might have been correct to blame him. The more he thought of it, the more he admitted that he may have been biased and prejudiced. And he intended to remedy his error.

But even if he did, any connection to Elizabeth was broken forever. He could not bear to meet her again, and most likely neither could she, considering that each was aware of the other’s feelings and equally hurt, although for different reasons.

“Do you miss her, sir? Of course you do, what a silly question.”

“What?” he startled, noticing Mrs Reynolds, the housekeeper, approaching him.

“Lady Anne. This is the time we always remember her. It has been thirteen years this week.”

“Yes,” he replied sternly, grieved and ashamed by his obliviousness. Even the memory of his mother had been blurred by his selfish suffering.

“She would be so proud of you, sir! Both of them would be.”

“Would they?” he asked without much care for his words.

The housekeeper immediately looked at him worriedly.

“Of course they would. Surely you do not doubt that! Anyone who knows you would agree. You have grown into a fine gentleman and the best landlord. All your tenants, everyone in Lambton knows of your generosity and many of them have felt it. They owe you their gratitude and respect!”

‘Your arrogance, your conceit, your…’

“Nobody owes me anything, Mrs Reynolds. You are too kind and very partial to me,” he said warmly. After serving the Darcys for more than twenty years, the gentle lady was part of the family. He felt easy and confident speaking to her.

“Of course we do—myself included. Very few people have the good fortune to find such an excellent and kind master!”

“I am not certain if this is true. I shall not pretend modesty; I am aware of my skills and knowledge and I know I am managing Pemberley well enough, but strangers are rarely fond of me, or I of them. I have been taught good principles, but I fear I apply them in a selfish and conceited way…”

“Excuse me? What nonsense is this? I shall not allow you to speak in such a way about yourself!”

“And yet, it is true. I cannot deny that I always like to have my own way—”

“Because your way is the right way, sir!”