Karen Wasylowski - Darcy and Fitzwilliam - A Tale of a Gentleman and an Officer

“Oh! Or was it something else? Did you get ill? Is he ill? Are you ill ?” she shouted on the off chance that he had suddenly gone deaf.

Fitzwilliam passed by and patted her shoulder then turned to speak in a loud whisper. “Is there any chance she will find a period to this sentence and employ it soon?” He began to ascend the stairs slowly, the fatigue and stress of the past weeks beginning to overwhelm him. “I take it I still have my old rooms upstairs, or have you moved me somewhere else?”

“No, same place as always. Shall we wake you for breakfast?”

“Not if you desire to live.” He turned and walked back down the two steps, leaning over to kiss Lizzy on both cheeks. “Good night, beautiful,” he muttered, “and thank you for the concern.” He then disappeared up the stairs. Elizabeth and Darcy both watched him until he turned the corner of the hallway.

“Well, that is very strange, I must say!” Elizabeth whispered, one hand pressed to her lips. She turned to look up at her husband. “Very extraordinary, don’t you think? I shall have to go up and speak with him tomorrow.”

“Leave him be for a while, please, Elizabeth. And by the way, how did you get down those stairs? Hmmm? Did you call for assistance? I do not seem to see the carrying chair down here, do I?” Sighing, Lizzy rolled her eyes and waddled silently away, shaking her head and holding onto her back.

“Don’t you walk away from me, young woman!” Darcy’s hands were planted on his hips. “ I am speaking to you, Mrs. Darcy! ”

December 24, 1817

Dearest Emily,

I hope this letter finds you well and having a merrier Christmas at Penwood than we are experiencing here at Pemberley House. It is with a heavy heart I convey to you that my brother has lost his mind completely and is attempting to take us all down with him. There is to be no Christmas pudding, no mistletoe, no garlands of ivy, no gifts, and no wassail.

“What is left to you, dear friend?” you may ask. We are left with something akin to the Twelve Days of Good Friday rather than Christmas.

We are left with servants hiding below stairs whenever possible, hiding so determinedly that one must drag them from their rooms by their feet.

We are left only with the “Interminable Wait” for the “Blessed Event,” although my dear brother grows paler each time he calls it that. He has alienated everyone, including the dogs, and his temper is so tightly coiled at this time that I fear his eyeballs will pop from their sunken crevices.

What concerns me most is that even the doctor has taken umbrage, refusing to return his calls, saying there is “plenty of time yet.” He has even refused my brother’s requests to install the midwife a month early, and I fear my brother is more persistent than prudent. We will all be glad when this is over.

And dear Elizabeth is sometimes an afterthought in all the horror.

Many thanks to you for allowing me to vent my frustrations like this. You are a true “Friend in Need.” I shall look forward to seeing you Boxing Day at Bunny Bridges’s holiday gathering, which will probably be the only merry time this year for me.

Yours in friendship,

Georgiana Darcy

Miss Georgiana Darcy did not, in any manner, exaggerate the mood at Pemberley House at Christmastime in the year of our Lord 1817. There were indeed no wishes to stir into the Christmas pudding. There was no mistletoe, no garland, no wassail. A goose life was spared, the fowl in question remaining undressed and happily ignorant of his near-death experience. Perfectly good presents remained unmolested upon shop shelves.

Darcy’s fears for Elizabeth’s pregnancy had progressed over the past months into an unreasoning hysteria as he envisioned his delicate wife, now much larger horizontally than vertically, in the throes of childbirth. Nightmares disturbed his sleep.

And she had still another month to go. Another four weeks for that behemoth, that monster, that fiend within her to continue its unchecked growth! Darcy had purposefully removed Elizabeth from the country, from the very bed in which his own mother had died giving birth to Georgiana. He had purposefully brought her to his beloved London, the city with superior physicians and advanced medical practices. He had not, however, counted on the greater crowds, almost twice as large as the prior year, and the noise! London, bursting at this holiday season and still celebrating the allies victory! Was this damned commemoration never to end?

The house remained in expectant quiet and seemed deserted to the innocent outside world, the knocker still packed somewhere within the attic, giving notice that no visitors were welcome. But those who lived within knew better. They who lived there, and all of surrounding St. James, waited.

Damn it to hell! Darcy took one last look up the stairs before storming out into the frosty night. I should not be forced to run like some criminal, driven from my own house, by my own wife . He paced back and forth on his front stoop, his breath blooming out around him with every heated exclamation, every “harrumph,” every “damnation,” every “ridiculous” that was spat out. Stomping his feet on the chilly pavement, he slapped his arms to ward off the freezing winter temperatures. She’s lost her mind, that’s all there is to it. I shall care for her, of course, for as long as she lives, and if she’s not careful, that won’t be too much longer .

He was furious with Elizabeth for her unprovoked behavior, while even angrier with himself for still feeling concern—and to what purpose? It was Boxing Day, the day after Christmas. He had approached their room with the noblest of intents. He would bring supper up for them both, sparing her an arduous trip up and down the staircase. Besides, most of the servants were off for their Yule holiday, and he wanted Mr. and Mrs. Winters to have a well-deserved rest also. He was perfectly willing to pitch in, warm up something or slice something, do whatever culinary magic it would entail to feed his beloved. How hard could it be?

He just required the most minimum of direction, such as just where the kitchen was exactly and how to light the oven, perhaps a recommendation on which pan to use and if he needed some sort of oil, and mayhap she could direct him to where those pans were actually kept, and the silverware—they would need silverware and dishes, too. Lizzy would help him. She liked blancmange. Could that be very difficult? And dressed lamb—that was his favorite.

He was too proud to admit his ignorance to the few remaining servants. Perhaps he should aim a bit lower. By God, wouldn’t some nice fruit and cheese be better all around, healthier, less trouble, too? Now, where was the fruit? And the larder? Where was cheese stored anyway?

To his shock, he had been greeted at the door not by his adoring wife but by some hysterical banshee propelling objects at him, great, heavy glass and metal objects, sailing lethally and deliberately through the air, accompanied by screams of “Liar” and shrieks of “How could you?” over and over again.

In his bewilderment, he never noticed the note that lay in shreds at her feet nor the locket she had clutched to her chest. He was too busy with his evasive action, his bobbing and weaving. All he knew for certain was that he was half an hour late in coming to her rooms, and this was his punishment. His ungrateful wife had finally snapped, did not appreciate him, never had. Suddenly anger and resentment could no longer be restrained, and they commenced a series of door slamming and verbal denunciations.