Hunsford Widow

Title: The Hunsford Widow
Author: ExcentrykeMuse
Fandoms: Pride & Prejudice / Twilight Saga
Pairings: Bella/Fitzwilliam, (one sided) Darcy/Elizabeth
Word Count: 10k
Rating: PG
Warnings: off screen character death, the Cullens may not be vampires (or are they?), time appropriate racism, elopement, we don’t like Elizabeth, we don’t like Mr. Collins for once, illegitimacy, affairs, Regency locker room talk

The Hunsford Widow

Fitzwilliam left Rosings and went to the local assembly.  His aunt’s house had a pallor of oppression and unlike Darcy he could not bear it with fortitude.  He walked around the ballroom and allowed himself to be introduced to several of the local misses and danced three dances before going into the back room where the gambling was taking place.

At first he did not notice her because she was wearing black.

However, a lady was gambling.

She joined his table and looked at him in interest.  “I see we have a newcomer.”  She nodded at him.  “What is the buy in?”

“Three pounds,” Mr. Avery informed her.

“Three pounds,” she agreed, taking it out of her purse.  “Deal me in.”

Fitzwilliam looked to his left where Mr. Small was dealing in the lady.  It seemed like she was an accepted part of Hunsford society.

“Forgive me, Madam, but I do not believe we have been introduced.”

She blushed and, at that moment, she became pretty.  Fitzwilliam became quite startled.  He had not expected to find her pretty. 

“Ah, forgive me,” Mr. Small said once he had passed round the cards.  “Colonel Fitzwilliam, this is Mrs. Edward Cullen, our bit of local color.”

“Lady Catherine does not approve of me,” she confessed, picking up her cards.  “I am always sure to sit in the back of the church on Sunday.”

“Indeed?” Fitzwilliam asked.  “How unfortunate as Lady Catherine is my aunt.”

Mrs. Cullen lifted an eyebrow in question.  “Really?  I see I am in esteemed company.  I had heard through the grapevine that her nephew Mr. Darcy was coming.  Indeed, all of Hunsford knows of his presence.”

Fitzwilliam played a card, used to being overlooked.  “I am only a second son.”

“Come, come,” Mr. Avery said.  “This is a fine way to play cards!”

It was true, Mrs. Cullen was regarding him instead of playing her hand.  She quickly rectified the matter.  Fitzwilliam, however, was intrigued by Mrs. Cullen.  He watched her throughout the hand and when the game broke up, he asked her to dance.

“You can see I’m in mourning,” she apologized, looking down at her black silks.

“A woman in mourning can still dance if she does so tastefully,” Fitzwilliam argued.  “You play cards.”

She looked over her shoulder at the table they had just vacated.  Giving him a small smile, she admitted, “I suppose one dance won’t hurt.”

Fitzwilliam offered her his hand and led her into the other room and out into the dance.

Mrs. Cullen was not the most graceful of dancers, but she knew the steps and she did not tread on his toes.  They had come in halfway through a set, more is the pity, but Fitzwilliam fetched her a punch and escorted her back to the gaming tables when she indicated she would like to return.  He stayed by her side for the rest of the evening instead of returning to the dancing.

When the ball was breaking up, he saw her outside and was surprised to learn that she had come to the assembly on foot.

“Allow me to see you home,” he offered gallantly.  “The streets are no place for a young lady.”

She smiled at him, her dark eyes laughing.  “I assure you, Colonel.  Hunsford is quite safe.”

“Still,” he pressed.  “You have no father nor husband to guard you.”

“Quite true.  However, that was true earlier this evening.”  She moved to step away, but he rested a hand on her arm.

“How shall I know where to call on you, Mrs. Cullen, if you do not allow me to see you home?”

Turning to him, she saw the indecision on her face.  “We both know, Colonel, you cannot call on me because I do not have a companion.  We also both know that you are a second son and I am a widow who rents rooms.”

“Your husband did not leave you a comfortable home?  I assumed you had a cottage with perhaps a small garden—”  He was most distressed on her behalf.

“Just because I wear silks does not mean that Edward left me with anything.”  She held his gaze.  “I am an unfortunate, Colonel.” 

She turned to go again, but he would not let her leave.  With two long strides he caught up with her and offered her his arm.  “Mrs. Cullen.  I insist.” 

Sighing, she nonetheless took his arm and allowed him to lead her down the street.  “People will talk.  I have my reputation to consider.”

“I will come right back for my horse,” Fitzwilliam promised.  “Allow me to be a little gallant, Mrs. Cullen.  I am, after all, an officer and a gentleman.”

She laughed into her hand.

When he looked at her in question, she waved him off. 

“Nevermind, Colonel.  You just quoted something I’ve heard before.”  She laughed once more to herself before controlling herself.  “You merely lightened my spirits.”

“I am most gratified to hear it.”

Mrs. Cullens did indeed have rooms above one of the shops and Fitzwilliam left her at the door, not even kissing her hand although he was most tempted.  He went straight back to the assembly hall and made a show of getting on his horse, making certain that everyone saw him leave in the direction of Rosings.  He would leave Mrs. Cullen’s character intact.

When he arrived back at the estate, Darcy was still playing billiards.

“Did you enjoy dancing?” he inquired, clearly not interested.

“Did you enjoy making love to Anne?” Fitzwilliam flippantly asked back.

Darcy glared at him.

“I made love to a very pretty widow,” Fitzwilliam admitted.  “She was worried about her reputation when I insisted on walking her home.  I like her.”

“As you walked her home, I know she is not a gentleman’s widow.”

“She wears silks.”

Darcy looked up in curiosity.

“Just what I thought,” Fitzwilliam agreed.  “She did say Lady Catherine does not approve of her but I assume that is because she plays cards.”

“All ladies play cards,” Darcy refuted, “though perhaps not at public balls.”

Fitzwilliam hummed.  “Just what I thought.  I shall inquire of Anne.  She might know something.”

Darcy looked up from his cue.  “You care that much?”

“She was uncommonly pretty,” Fitzwilliam answered carefully.

“Come.  It must be more than that.”

Fitzwilliam picked up the eight ball and pretended to examine it.  “You know I have fought on the fields of Spain.”

“Yes,” Darcy agreed.

“The women have a different look about them there.”

“Are you saying this widow looks foreign?”

“She is as pale as any English rose,” Fitzwilliam admitted, still examining the eight ball, trying to put it into words.  “The turn of her face, however, and her eyes—they were not just blue, but violet.  I have never seen the like before.  I can well imagine why Edward Cullen married her.  A man need only look at her and he is instantly struck by those eyes.”

Darcy regarded him for several long moments.  “I know of what you speak,” he confessed carefully.

“You do?”  Fitzwilliam was surprised.

“I have never seen violet eyes,” he admitted, “but I have been struck by fine eyes.  A man would give up his fortune for eyes such as those in the face of a pretty woman.”

Momentarily distracted, Fitzwilliam inquired suspiciously, “Of whom do you speak?”

Darcy took the eight ball back.  For a long moment, Fitzwilliam thought he would not answer.  However, after he had lined up a shot and had taken it, he confessed, “You shall know by and by, I am certain.  I should like to see your pretty Mrs. Cullen.”

“Church is tomorrow.”

“Indeed, it is,” Darcy agreed.  He took the final shot and then put away his cue.  “I do not suppose we might sit with her.”

“She says she always sits in the back to avoid Lady Catherine’s critical gaze.”

They each picked up a candle and Darcy blew out the rest.  Leaving the room, they closed the door behind them and entered the dark hallway.

“That is most unfortunate,” Darcy agreed.  “We may converse with her after the service.”

“We shall have to distract Lady Catherine.”

“That is possible,” Darcy promised as they went up the stairs.  “Anne might have a cough.”  The cousins shared a look.  It was decided.

The next morning Fitzwilliam rose bright and early.  One of the footmen saw to him when he was at Rosings and he took a bath and shaved.  He then dressed carefully in his regimentals and was early for breakfast.

He and Darcy escorted the Rosings women to church and they sat in the front pews.  Fitzwilliam, however, hung back, standing inside the church doors, waiting for Mrs. Cullen to appear.  She slipped in just before the service, just as the vicar was starting the service, and Fitzwilliam took her arm and slipped into the back pew with her.

“Colonel!” she whispered sharply. 

He only smiled at her and raised his finger to his lips to indicate she should be silent.

She shoved him.  When he did not move, she shoved him again. 

Leaning over toward her, he shushed her.

The people in the row ahead of them shifted.

Mrs. Cullen glared at him and rammed her left foot into his, clearly wanting him to leave her pew.  It was time to stand and sing the first hymn so Fitzwilliam did just that, opening his Psalter.  Mrs. Cullen was slow to stand, but she picked up her Psalter and found the correct page, coming in late but singing in a lovely alto voice.  When it was time to sit, she slid her Psalter under where he was going to sit, but he merely turned, picked it up, and gave it back to her with a grin.  She glared at him.

She looked very pretty in her black day silks and black bonnet with rosettes and feathers.  Mrs. Cullen looked quite fashionable.  Her husband must have left her with some money or she paid for it from her gambling winnings.  That was, of course, a possibility.

Fitzwilliam could tell that even though she was facing forward during the sermon, she was inattentive.  She kept on fiddling with her lace gloves and shifting her feet.  At one point, he reached out and placed a hand over hers, a bold move given that they had just met the night before.

Mrs. Cullen tilted her head toward his but quieted. 

When it was time for the final hymn, she did not try to shove him or obstruct him from sitting down again.

After service, Fitzwilliam led her a little away from the church and waited for Darcy to emerge.

“Lady Catherine will surely notice you were not sitting with her,” she told him outright.

“There was not enough room for me as Mrs. Jenkinson was sitting with Miss De Bourg,” he explained away.  “As the ill favored nephew, I often make myself disappear.”

She looked up at him sharply.  “Truly?”  Her violet eyes shone brightly in worry in the morning sun.

“Truly,” he promised her.  “There was no reason to try and push me out of your pew.”

Blushing, she turned to the side, so all he could see was her bonnet.  “I was unaware, Colonel.  I thought you were making a spectacle of yourself.”

“Were you quite so—disagreeable—when Mr. Cullen showed interest in you?” he asked, laughing a little.  “I imagine what an interesting courtship it must have been.”

She fiddled with her Psalter but still did not look up at him.  “Edward tried to dissuade me from him while simultaneously pursuing me.  It was quite the interesting courtship.”  She peeked up at him and Fitzwilliam could see she was blushing.  “We were married but three months later.”

“You must have been quite young.”

“But seventeen,” Mrs. Cullen agreed.  “He died but two months after that.”

Fitzwilliam made to respond, but then he saw Darcy come out of the church.  Lady Catherine was lecturing the vicar, most likely on the inadequacies of the sermon.  Fitzwilliam signaled to his cousin, and Darcy walked over.

“Darcy,” he greeted, “this is Mrs. Edward Cullen.”

Bella turned toward Darcy and if she was surprised by his looks, which were almost identical to Fitzwilliam, she did not show it.  She curtsied to him prettily and offered him her hand, which Darcy took. 

“Mrs. Cullen,” Darcy greeted, his voice in its usual somber tone, “I understand you danced with Fitzwilliam last night.”

“But the one dance,” she agreed.  “I am not a great dancer.”

“Neither am I,” Darcy informed her.  “I only dance with women of my most intimate acquaintance.”

“Then I shall not put you on my dance card,” Mrs. Cullen decided.  “I shall rely only on the Colonel at the next assembly.”

“A wise decision,” Darcy agreed, tilting his head to her.

A woman walked behind Mrs. Cullen in a yellow dress and straw bonnet and her eyes flashed toward Fitzwilliam and Darcy.  Fitzwilliam thought Darcy paused for a moment but he could have been imagining it.  He believed he had seen the woman sitting with the vicar’s wife, but he could have been mistaken.  His attention had almost exclusively been on Mrs. Cullen.

“May I convey my sympathy on the passing of your husband?” Darcy asked, his momentary lapse now over.

Fitzwilliam was surprised.  Despite what Mrs. Cullen had expressed in their earlier conversation, he had understood the bereavement to have been sometime standing otherwise she never would have danced with him.  He had even suspected it to be some years past.  Some widows remained in mourning for the sake of convention and protection.

“The carriage accident was quite sudden,” Mrs. Cullen agreed.  “Both Edward and Dr. Cullen were traveling back from a patient’s home when it overturned and crushed them.”  She paused, thinking.  “I lost the home with the living although no doctor has taken Dr. Cullen’s place, as of yet.  There is only Sir George who comes to attend Miss De Bourg from Maidstone.”

“Indeed,” Fitzwilliam breathed.  “I had not realized Mr. Cullen’s father was the local doctor.”

“Yes,” she told them.  “Lady Catherine quite depended on his expertise with Miss De Bourg.  He was trained at Cambridge and Edward was studying there to likewise become a doctor.”  She looked over her shoulder at someone before returning her attention to them.  “You must understand I am not originally from Hunsford.”

“And where are your people from, Mrs. Cullen?” Darcy inquired.

She looked quite surprised.  Looking between them, she asked, “You do not know?  I thought everyone knew.  Indeed, it is all anyone could seem to talk about for the longest time.  Mr. Collins threatened to baptize me although I already was as a baby!”

Fitzwilliam and Darcy shared a confused look.

“Darcy!  Fitzwilliam!  I need you!”  Lady Catherine was strident as always.

Annoyed but not at all surprised at the ill timing, Fitzwilliam shared another look with his cousin.  Taking Mrs. Cullen’s hand, he kissed the back of it.  “You must forgive us, Madam.  We are called away.”

There was still a stunned look in her beautiful violet eyes, but she pulled herself together.  “Not at all, Colonel,” she managed to murmur.  She turned to Darcy.  “So nice to make your acquaintance.”

“Likewise, Mrs. Cullen.”  He tipped his hat at her.

The cousins then left her, being none the wiser of her origins.  They shared another look as they made their way to the carriage.

Lady Catherine was waiting for them.  Darcy obligingly helped her in and then lifted Anne into the conveyance.  Mrs. Jenkinson did not wait for a hand.  She knew her place as Anne’s companion. 

Darcy and Fitzwilliam’s horses had been brought forward and they got into the saddle.

“What did she mean?” Fitzwilliam wondered aloud.

“Everyone is baptized except Mahometans,” Darcy surmised.  “She is certainly not a Mahometan.”

“No,” Fitzwilliam agreed.  “It is something else.”  He looked once more toward Mrs. Cullen who was speaking to another parishioner and then spurred on his horse toward Rosings.

He could not get in a private word with Anne until Tuesday.  Mrs. Jenkinson hovered so.  Anne was propped up on a chaise lounge, in her usual shawls and scarves, a widows cap of white lace on her head.

Fitzwilliam considered a moment.  He had never seen Mrs. Cullen in a widows cap.  At the assembly she had worn black feathers in her hair and at church her beautiful black locks had been restrained under a bonnet.  He should not like to see it restrained in a widows cap, he thought, but he pushed the notion away and focused on Anne.

“Cousin,” he greeted.

She sniffed.  “You are not with Darcy?” she inquired.

“He is checking over the accounts.”

“He is so good to Mama,” Anne agreed, wiping her nose.  “We do not deserve him.”  Looking at Fitzwilliam, she asked, “Do you need Mama?”

“I wanted to ask you a question.”

“A question?”  She sneezed.  After she sniffed for a full three minutes, she asked, “What question?”

“Mrs. Cullen.”

“Oh.  Her.”  She sniffed again.  “What about her?”

“Why would the vicar need to baptize her?”

Anne looked at him in disbelief.  “You do not know?”

Fitzwilliam stared at her.  “If I knew, I should not be asking.”

“It is quite simple really.”  She paused.  “Mrs. Cullen is from the Americas.”

“Are not the Americas Christian?  Or is she a Papist?”

“She is not a Papist.”  Anne looked disinterested.  “It is quite the scandal, but Edward Cullen would marry her.  No.  She is not English.”

“Is she German?”  King George III was from Hanover.  It was not the scandal it would have been a hundred years since.

“No.”  Anne regarded him carefully.  “Why do you want to know?”

“Anne,” he chided.  “Just tell me.”

She sniffed again.  “Very well.  It is only, well, Mama does not like me to speak to her.  She is not proper.”  She paused and looked at him significantly as if she expected him to know what she meant.

“Anne.  I need you to tell me.  I do not understand what you mean.”  He was feeling quite exasperated now, and he feared it was coming out in his tone.

Anne leaned in and whispered, “She is a Native.”

Fitzwilliam blinked.  “She is?”

Nodding, Anne sniffed again and sneezed.  She discarded her handkerchief, which was quite used up, and pulled another from her sleeve.  “Her name was Swan.  The natives are named after animals and storms, supposedly.  She told the last vicar that she was baptized.  Apparently, the natives are baptized by the settlers.”  She sniffed, this time to show her superiority.  “She even said her mother is of English heritage and her father is partially of English heritage as well, if she can be believed.”  It was clear what Anne thought of these claims.  “However, she is clearly of Native origins.  Just look at her strange eyes.”

Fitzwilliam had a sinking feeling in his stomach.  Her eyes.  Her beautiful eyes.  They were not English.  They were not even European. 

He mustered his courage.  “Thank you, Anne.  You have been most helpful.”

She nodded.  “Mama does not approve of her.”

No, of course she did not.  She was of inferior birth.  What was he going to do?

Fortunately, Anne had a coughing fit, so he was able to call for Mrs. Jenkinson, and he left the room as quickly as possible, going to find Darcy in the study.

He closed the doors behind him firmly, a sense of panic overtaking him.

“Darcy.”

Darcy ignored him.

“Darcy!” he demanded.

“Can you not see that I am busy?”

“I think I am in love,” he realized desperately.

At this, Darcy did look up.  “It has only been four days.  The poets say a man can fall in love at first sight, but this is fast even for that.”  He went back to his ledger.  “You cannot marry her if she does not have a fortune and you cannot take a respectable widow as your mistress especially under Lady Catherine’s nose.”

“I do not want to take Mrs. Cullen as my mistress!” Fitzwilliam realized wildly.  “Lord!  I do not even know her Christian name!”

“You better find out,” Darcy suggested.  “Do you need a loan upon which to marry?”  He was still looking at the ledgers.

“I have not considered that problem,” Fitzwilliam confessed, butterflies in his stomach.  He was in love with Mrs. Cullen.  He was ready to disregard her heritage and carry her off to Gretna Green, Lady Catherine and his father be damned.  He was willing to risk his reputation and the reputation of the Matlock name.  He was only a second son, after all, so it did not signify.  The main line would remain pure, and his sons would always need professions no matter whom he married—

Darcy was regarding him.  “What is wrong with Mrs. Cullen?”

“She is a native.”

Darcy stared at him clearly not grasping what Fitzwilliam was telling him.  “I do not comprehend you.”

“Her father is a native of the Americas.  I do not know how Edward Cullen even met her, but he married her regardless, and that is why the vicar wants to baptize her even though the natives are apparently baptized already.  Of course they are.  There are missionaries in the Americas.”  He strode over to the window and looked out over the peaceful grounds of Rosings.  “Her mother is a settler,” he confessed.  “Her father is part settler.  The taint is only partial.”

“The taint is there,” Darcy noted.  He took a deep breath.  “We both know the Earl of Matlock is not your father.”

Fitzwilliam turned from the window.  They had only spoken of this once, when they were teenagers.  Darcy had been fourteen and Fitzwilliam had just been told his father, the Earl, would not pay for him to go to Cambridge.  He was seventeen years old and was being given a commission to the Army as a loan from the man who was legally his father.  He was not even given a profession outright.

Fitzwilliam and Darcy both had the Darcy looks.  They were both tall, broad shouldered, with curling hair and wide foreheads.  Darcy had the Darcy green eyes (as did Georgiana), but Fitzwilliam had inherited his mother’s brown gaze.  Fitzwilliam looked nothing like the Earl of Matlock (nor Lady Anne Darcy nor Lady Catherine De Bourg, his sisters) who was thin, blond with wispy hair, petit, and blue eyed.  Fitzwilliam’s elder brother looked the copy of the Earl of Matlock as did the sickly Anne De Bourg.

“What are you saying?” Fitzwilliam asked carefully. 

“You are your own man,” Darcy told him outright.  “The Matlocks essentially have no claim on you.  They gave you the name, but you are not their blood and they never helped you.  You essentially bought your commission and when is the last time you went back to the family estate?”

Considering, Fitzwilliam admitted, “Not since I was twenty.”

Darcy grimaced.  “So over a decade ago.”

“Mother does not like to look at me.”  She did not like any reminder of her brief affair with George Darcy, her brother-in-law.  Lord Matlock did not like the visual reminder of his wife’s infidelity either.  Fitzwilliam did not know if Owestry was smart enough to have even noticed.  His sister, Lady Julia, certainly had her suspicions and did not like him for it.

“You can marry whomever you want,” Darcy told him outright.  “Mrs. Cullen is a respectable widow.  Now.  Do you need a loan?”

“I have my commission and some money saved,” Fitzwilliam admitted.  “Mrs. Cullen need only agree to the life of an officer’s wife and living in the barracks instead of above a shop.  I can still hopefully dress her in silks.  She will have officers’ balls to keep her amused.”

“Will she agree to marry you?”

“No.”  This was the truth.  Mrs. Cullen did not know him well enough to like him.  “The campaign is not won.”

“Then you will have to win it.  We are here for five weeks.  You can always have my carriage for an elopement if you think that is the best course of action.”

Grimacing, Fitzwilliam admitted, “Lady Catherine will never allow a marriage here at Hunsford.”

“Then you shall elope.  If needs must I will hire a carriage to take me back from London if Lady Catherine will not lend me hers.”  He shrugged.  “Whatever you need.”

Turning back to the window, Fitzwilliam admitted, “There is one problem.  I do not know how to see her.  I cannot call on her.  She lives alone and there are no more assemblies.  I cannot very well woo her at church.”

“Deliver a letter to her door,” Darcy suggested, returning to the large leger.  “Invite her for a walk somewhere private where Lady Catherine will not hear about it.  I would suggest the walks of Rosings but I am currently employing them and I should not like company.”

Fitzwilliam looked at him oddly, even though Darcy’s back was currently turned to him.  What could he mean by that?

As Darcy did not elaborate, Fitzwilliam was left to wonder.  He slapped Darcy on the shoulder and left.  He had a letter to write.

The letter was delivered in due course and he waited for Mrs. Cullen down by the pond on the edge of Rosings Park.  It was decidedly near none of the pleasant walks so he trusted Darcy would not begrudge him the pretty piece of wilderness.

He had signified the sun’s zenith and when he looked up at the sky he saw that it was indeed the appointed time.

Hearing a rustle to the side, he turned and saw Mrs. Cullen in her black silks and bonnet.  He smiled at her widely and offered her a hand through the bullrushes.  “You came.”

“I am not certain you gave me a choice,” she answered.  “My interest was aroused.  Whatever did you mean by delivering that letter?”

“Only that I wished to see you.”

“Yes,” she agreed wryly as she fell into step with him on the boardwalk, the sound of her heeled shoes clacking on the wood.  “Most men, if they want to see widows, secret themselves into their private rooms.”  She looked up at him unapologetically with her violet eyes.

They were startling in their vividness. It was frank looks like this that made Fitzwilliam love this strange woman the way he did.

“I do not wish to make you my mistress.”

“No,” she agreed.  “I suppose you are too honorable for that.”  She picked a pussy willow.  “An officer and a gentleman, as you said.  What does Mr. Darcy say?  You after all did introduce us after church.”

“He suggested I invite you to walk.”

She looked about them.  “And you chose here.”

“Do you like it?” he asked anxiously.

“It is a very pretty wilderness,” she agreed with a small smile, turning back to him.  “Did you bring lunch?”

They made a small picnic with the apples, beer, and cheese Fitzwilliam had brought from the kitchens.  Mrs. Cullen removed her bonnet to show her long black hair had been twisted onto the back of her head, although it was beginning to fall down her back.

“I suppose you inherited your father’s hair,” Fitzwilliam asked carefully.

She paused but then nodded.  “Renee—my mom—had blonde hair.”  She half shrugged.  “From a bottle.”  (What an odd thing to say, Fitzwilliam thought, but he remained attentive.)  “It was really this nondescript dishwater color.  The sort of color you often see in the Americas.  But Quileute hair.”  Now she paused and looked out over the water.  “It’s blacker than the night sky.  You can always spot it in a crowd.”  She turned to him and smiled.  “None of us ever cut it, not even the boys.  We all wore it long.  Charlie was different.  He lived with the palefaces, so he cut his hair short and he wore a mustache, but he was always welcome back on tribal lands to go fishing and play cards.”

“Who was Charlie?” Fitzwilliam inquired, feeling jealous.

Mrs. Cullens laughed a little, taking another bite of cheese.  “My father.  I called him ‘Charlie.’”

Relief washed through Fitzwilliam.  “Oh.  I see.”

She hummed.  “When I was very little,” she paused, waiting to see if he wanted her to continue.

Fitzwilliam leaned forward.  “No, please, Mrs. Cullen.  Tell me.”

“When I was little,” she repeated, “Charlie used to take me to council meetings.  The men would sing songs of how we were descended from wolves.”  Her eyes widened playfully.  “Wolves.  Imagine that.  Charlie didn’t have a vicious bone in his body.”

“Neither, I am certain, do you, Mrs. Cullen.”  His brown eyes connected with her violet ones, and he smiled at her. 

“I am harmless,” she agreed with a small laugh.  “I only corrupt children with my wicked ways, or so says the vicar.”  Sighing at this, she looked back out over the pond.  “I could get lost in a place like this.”

“Then I chose correctly.”

Mrs. Cullen smiled quietly to herself.  “Yes, I suppose you did, Colonel.”

He watched her as she pinned up her hair before she left to return to the village.  Taking her gloved hand, he kissed the back of it, and she blushed prettily.  “Will you come the day after tomorrow?” he asked her.

“Yes,” she agreed quietly.  “I shall come.”  She disappeared into the high grasses.  He watched her go, feeling a little heartsick.

On his way back up toward Rosings Park, he was startled to see Darcy speaking to a young woman along the pathways.  Fitzwilliam was not observed, so he withdrew behind a tree and carefully tried to loop around the trail so that he would not be noticed.

When he saw Darcy after lunch, he asked, “Who was the young lady in the pink muslin?”

Darcy was standing at the window, his hands behind his back in his usual pose, and at first he gave no indication he heard Fitzwilliam.  “Were you spying on me?”

“You know me better than that!”  He came up behind Darcy and looked over his shoulder.  Darcy was regarding the tree line.  As Fitzwilliam had suspected, there was nothing notable about the trees.  “No, I was coming back from the boardwalk where I had spent a pleasant interlude with Mrs. Cullen when I came upon you.  I made certain not to disturb your privacy as I would hope you would do the same for me.”

“I thank you, Cousin.”

Fitzwilliam waited for further answer but received none.  He supposed he would have to content himself with that.

Mrs. Cullen was early to their second appointment and was already walking along the boardwalk when Fitzwilliam arrived.  “You have not told me of yourself,” she prodded with a blush.

“I am the second son.  I purchased my commission with a loan at the age of seventeen.”

She was clearly surprised at this. 

“My brother went to Eton and Cambridge.  I went to Eton, of course, but was not permitted further education.  Darcy is more a brother to me than the Matlock family.” He ate a grape and pondered.  “My uncle Darcy named me second guardian to my young cousin, Georgiana.  She is but sixteen years old.  She is quiet but willful underneath her otherwise silent demeanor.”

“A handful then,” Mrs. Cullen suggested.

“She needs a sister,” Fitzwilliam admitted, “but that falls on Darcy.  He has seen no need to marry at present.”

“Does he not?” she wondered.  “Not even for the sake of his sister?”

Fitzwilliam recalled what Darcy had said about fine eyes and the lady in pink muslin he had seen with Darcy with on the trails of Rosings, and wondered at it.  “Darcy is often pursued for Pemberley and his excellent connections.  No one has yet to catch him.”

She hummed.  “Poor Darcy.”

“Poor Darcy indeed!” he agreed with a laugh.

Mrs. Cullen hesitated.  “There are rumors he is to marry Miss De Bourg.”

“Rumors only,” Fitzwilliam assured her, “brought about by Lady Catherine’s wishful thinking.  They do not align with Darcy’s wishes.”

She nodded.  “Certainly poor Darcy then.  He cannot even visit his relations without raising speculation.”

“Tis but the truth.”

“While you raise no speculation,” Mrs. Cullen noticed, “even when you pay attention to a young widow.”  Her violet eyes flashed in amusement.

“Pray, Mrs. Cullen, what is your age?”

She looked up, surprised.  “I am not twenty.”

He regarded her.  “Indeed.  I am one and thirty.”

“Are you?”  She had picked up a knife and was peeling an apple.  “Then we are both of an age to marry.”

“Quite,” he agreed with a smile.

“My dowry is intact,” she told him carefully.  “Edward never touched it.”

“I do not know what your position was before you were married, Mrs. Cullen.”

“No,” she agreed, cutting off a slice of apple and offering it to him.  “I suppose that is correct.  There is no way for you to know unless you wrote to Charlie and that would take months.”  She hesitated.  “I never wrote to tell him that Edward and Dr. Cullen had died.  I didn’t wish for him to send for me.”

This startled Fitzwilliam.  “Your family does not know you are a widow?”

She shook her head.  “It has only been six months since.  I suppose I could be forgiven.”

“I—”  He reached out for her hand and she gave it.  “Mrs. Cullen, I am afraid I know not your Christian name.”

She blushed again.  “Nor I yours.”

He smiled at her charmingly.  “Richard.”

“Richard,” she repeated.  “Bella.—Isabella.  But I am called ‘Bella.’”

“Bella,” he repeated.  “How well it suits you, Mrs. Cullen.”

She looked up at him winsomely.  “I thought I had given you my name, Colonel.”

“I thought I had given you mine,” he returned simply.

Their eyes met, brown to violet, and they sat there, on the boardwalk, contented in each other’s presence.

Fitzwilliam was so pleased with the afternoon’s events that he almost forgot that Lady Catherine had invited the vicar and his wife to dinner.  He had to be called from the billiard room and did not have time to spruce up his aftershave, not that the vicar’s wife deserved such attention.  He was, however, surprised when the young lady in pink muslin appeared as the particular friend of the vicar’s wife.

He glanced at Darcy to see his reaction, and even he could tell that Darcy was pleased to see her.

Lady Catherine paid especial attention to her, clearly interested in the young woman, and Fitzwilliam soon came to understand that his aunt wished the vicar had married Miss Bennet instead of the woman he had actually married.

Choosing to turn the pages for her when it was her turn to perform, he asked, “And how do you know Darcy?  I seem to detect some familiarity between the two of you?”

“We met in Hertfordshire last Autumn,” she confessed as she chose her music.  “We had the misfortune of spending a se’ennight in the same house together.”

“Indeed?” Fitzwilliam inquired.  “And how did that occur?”

“Oh, but a chance of circumstance,” she lied, striking the first chord.  “He shall undoubtedly tell you as I cannot.”  Turning her attention to the music, she began to play very ill indeed.

Darcy walked up to the pianoforte, his object undoubtedly Miss Bennet.

“My courage rises,” Miss Bennet declared to Fitzwilliam, “at every attempt to intimidate me, I do declare.”

Darcy stared at her adoringly.  “I am not afraid of you.”

What an odd thing for him to say.

“What have you to accuse him of?” Fitzwilliam asked of Miss Bennet as she had now stopped playing.

She looked between the cousins, clearly taking in their similarities.  “The first time I saw Mr. Darcy was at a public dance,” she declared, “where gentlemen were scarce and more than one lady was in want of a partner.”

Fitzwilliam was alarmed at the characterization of his cousin.

“It is true,” Darcy allowed.  “I have not the comfortable knack of recommending myself to strangers.”

Miss Bennet began to play again.  “Shall we ask him why?” she asked Fitzwilliam.  “—why a man of sense and information should not feel himself qualified to recommend himself to strangers?”

Darcy stared at her, so did Fitzwilliam.  He was horrified.

“Indeed.  You have employed your time much better.”  This was Darcy.

“I do not play this instrument as well as I should wish to, but I have assumed that is my own fault because I would not take the trouble to practice.”

Darcy continued to look at her adoringly.  “We neither of us perform to strangers.”

Fitzwilliam could not believe his eyes.  Was this the woman Darcy had been ruminating  over when he spoke of fine eyes?  She was positively insolent.  He signaled to his cousin behind Miss Bennet’s back.

Darcy turned his attention to him and looked at him in confusion.

Fitzwilliam glared at him.

Darcy did not seem to understand his message.

“What are you saying?” Lady Catherine demanded from the other side of the room.  “I must have my share in the conversation!”

Darcy’s gaze shifted to one of forbearance.  He walked away from the pianoforte and back toward Lady Catherine and Anne.  The moment was lost.  Miss Bennet looked up at Fitzwilliam with a question in her eye and he gave her a false smile.  He wanted nothing more than to be in Mrs. Cullen’s company again.

“You cannot mean for her to be your wife,” Fitzwilliam seethed in the privacy of the smoking room once Lady Catherine’s guests had gone.  “A woman like that!”

“She is positively delightful!  She treats me like she does any other man.  It is most refreshing.”

“You mean she treats you with insolence and teases you mercilessly.  That an equal marriage does not make.  If you marry that woman, she will speak to you without respect and Georgiana will not see harmony at Pemberley.”

Darcy grimaced.  “You cannot mean that.”

Fitzwilliam flicked his cigar.  “I mean exactly that.  You do not see the situation plainly.  You are blinded by attraction, though I do not see that either.”  He looked at the smoke pooling on the ceiling.  “No, man, you are mistaken.”

Darcy seemed unconvinced.  “No.  It is you who are mistaken.”

Furrowing his brows, Fitzwilliam saw that the situation was a difficult one.  He simply must plan a separate aim of attack.

On Friday, he employed Mrs. Cullen.  “Do you know Miss Elizabeth Bennet?”

“A little,” she admitted.  “Mr. Collins does not allow her to socialize with me.”

“I need you to invite her to tea Saturday afternoon and then bring her here.  I need to speak with her.”

Mrs. Cullen paused.  She had been untying her bonnet as it was a particularly hot day and she regarded Fitzwilliam.  “It is not that I do not trust you,” she began carefully.

“Of course,” he agreed, reaching out for her bonnet and taking it off her head.  Her beautiful black hair shone in the sunlight and he regarded her in contentment.  “Darcy has this mistaken idea that he is in love with her.  I need to warn her off him.”

Mrs. Cullen thought a moment and then asked, “Are you certain you should interfere?”

“For the sake of Georgiana, I must.”

She nodded.  “I will bring her here.”

“Thank you.”  He smiled at her lovingly.

That day, under the poplar tree, he kissed Mrs. Cullen.  She was rather tall for a woman, but she fit nicely in his arms.  She sighed into the kiss and tucked her head under his chin.  He held her there, contented with his life.  “Could you think of marrying me?” he whispered into her ear.

“The vicar would never perform the marriage,” she confessed.

“Then we need not marry here.”

“Then where would we marry?”

“Elsewhere,” he promised.  “There are ways.”

When he got back to Rosings, he found Darcy in the library.  “The campaign is almost won.”

“You will be needing the carriage then.”

Fitzwilliam paused and thought.  “What if we merely took her with us when we left Rosings?” he questioned.  “We would not even alert Lady Catherine that something were amiss.  We could have her wait on the edge of the woods with a bag, inform her housekeeper she was going to visit a friend, and we could carry her off to London.  Then—then we could be married there by special license from Darcy House or go to Gretna Green, whatever is more feasible.  On the coach road, we could rent Mrs. Cullen her own room.  It is not ideal—”

“No, no,” Darcy agreed.  “It is another three weeks, but I quite see your point.  No one has seen you?”

“No,” Fitzwilliam told him.  “No one.”

“Then that is what we shall do.  Ask Mrs. Cullen if she likes this plan and if she can tolerate my presence in the carriage.”

“It would be no different than taking a public coach and sharing it with a man she had met once or twice before,” Fitzwilliam reasoned.  “Come.  We shall present the plan to her together.  Surely you can forgo Miss Bennet’s lovely company for one afternoon.”

Darcy’s green eyes turned thoughtful and then he nodded.  “When do you next see her?”

“Sunday in church,” Fitzwilliam lied, “but then again Monday afternoon.”

“We shall speak with her Monday.”  It was decided.  Hopefully by then the Miss Bennet question would be dealt with. 

Fitzwilliam clasped hands with Darcy and all was decided.

All must have gone to plan with Elizabeth Bennet because Darcy returned from his morning walk, none the wiser, and then Mrs. Cullen turned up on the boardwalk with the young woman at luncheon.  The basket was hidden in the bullrushes, and Fitzwilliam was standing in his regimentals.

“Colonel Fitzwilliam,” Miss Bennet greeted, coming forward in an ill suited yellow muslin.  “This is all very peculiar.  When I received Mrs. Cullen’s note, I almost did not come as I did not know how to explain it to Charlotte.”  Charlotte.  That must be the vicar’s wife.

“I appreciate your ingenuity,” Fitzwilliam tried to smile at her.  Mrs. Cullen had fallen behind, giving them their privacy.  “There is some information I believe you should know.”

“Information?  What information?”  Miss Bennet looked confused.

“I believe you meet Darcy most mornings on your daily constitutional.”

She blushed slightly.  It did not suit her complexion.  She certainly was not as pretty when she blushed as Mrs. Cullen was.  “I have told him my morning routine so we can avoid each other, but we somehow wind up on the same paths despite our best intentions,” she seemed to apologize, looking up at him carefully.  “You will apologize to him for me, will you not?”  What an odd sentiment to express, Fitzwilliam thought.  However, he let it pass.

“You are acquainted, of course, with his friend Bingley.  I believed Darcy stayed at his house in Hertfordshire.”

“Yes, Netherfield,” Miss Bennet agreed.  “We were neighbors.”

“Darcy prides himself in saving Bingley from an unsuitable marriage prospect while they were in the neighborhood.  I understand there were some questions as to the lady.  Do you understand what I am saying, Miss Bennet?”

The lady had paused, looking up at Fitzwilliam with sky blue eyes.  “Why was Mr. Darcy to be the judge?”

“I understand that Darcy takes prodigious care of Bingley and Bingley relies on Darcy’s judgment.”

“Indeed.”  Miss Bennet looked clearly upset.  “Thank you for the information, Colonel Fitzwilliam.”

He tipped her hat to her.  “Good day, Miss Bennet.”

She curtseyed and then left in the direction of the village.

Mrs. Cullen approached when she was well gone and asked, “What did you say to her?”

“I told Miss Bennet, in not so many words, that Darcy prevented the advantageous marriage between Bingley and one of her sisters.  Now she will be angry at him and hopefully will refuse his marriage proposal when he makes it in the next fortnight.  Let us hope she will not marry him out of spite.”

Chewing her lower lip, Mrs. Cullen worried, “Should you have interfered?”

“For Georgiana’s sake, yes.  You do not know Miss Bennet, but it would have been a most unequal marriage, not only in situation, but in temperament.  She belittles Darcy.  I would not wish such a match on him.”

Startled, Mrs. Cullen looked at him.  “Miss Bennet belittles him?”

“Yes.  It is hidden in a veneer of playfulness but it is there.”  He turned to her and placed his hands on either side of her shoulders.  “You see now why I have acted.”

“Yes, Richard,” she agreed quietly.  “Your cousin does not deserve that.  I barely know him, but I wish him nothing but happiness.”

“That is because you are kind hearted, Isabella.”

She smiled at him.  “Bella,” she corrected.

“Am I correct in thinking that Edward Cullen called you ‘Bella’?”

“Indeed.”

He led her over to their picnic basket and got out the blanket, laying it out on the boardwalk.  “I should not like to refer to you as he did.  When you married him, you were but a girl.  I see you as a woman grown.  With your permission, I should like to call you ‘Isabella.’”

She blushed, allowing him to seat her.  “No one has ever called me ‘Isabella,’ not even Grandma Marie when she was angry.”

“Then let it be my name for you.”

She looked up at him with wide violet eyes.  “Very well, Richard,” she agreed.  “You may call me ‘Isabella.’  But only you.  Your family shall refer to me as ‘Bella.’”

Fitzwilliam could not see it.  Darcy would call her ‘Isabella’ out of respect and would insist Georgiana do the same.  He did not anticipate introducing her to his mother or father.  He was quite estranged from them.  Lady Catherine.  Well.  Lady Catherine and Anne would most likely call her ‘Mrs. Fitzwilliam’ for the sake of form.

The next day was Sunday, and Fitzwilliam waited for Mrs. Cullen at church and sat with her again in the back pew. 

Lady Catherine was in the front pew on the right while the vicar’s wife and her friend were in the front pew on the left.  He watched the back of Darcy’s head and saw it turn ever so slightly toward Miss Bennet.

Mrs. Cullen pressed her hand into his during the sermon and he entwined their fingers.  He regretted that they were both wearing gloves.

Darcy joined them outside of the church as he had the week before.  “We have a proposal for you, Mrs. Cullen,” Darcy told her solemnly, “regarding travel arrangements.”

“Travel arrangements?”

“Indeed,” Fitzwilliam was quick to agree.  “We both know we cannot marry in Kent.”

“No.”  She glanced toward the vicar who was speaking to Lady Catherine.  “The vicar would not agree to read the banns and I am certain Lady Catherine should not like it.”

“I understand you and Fitzwilliam meet for a picnic.  If I may join you tomorrow?” Darcy asked.

Out of the corner of his eye, Fitzwilliam noticed that the vicar’s wife and Miss Bennet were walking down the lane toward the parsonage.  It did not seem that Darcy had noticed.

“Of course,” Mrs. Cullens agreed.  “Fitzwilliam, I trust, will inform the kitchens, as he provides our picnic basket.”

He bowed gallantly.  “It should be my pleasure.”

She smiled prettily at the two of them and curtseyed.  “Best not to excite comment,” she whispered before turning and leaving the two cousins.

“I think she cares for you,” Darcy noted.  “I see it in her expression.”

“She has never told me if she loved Edward Cullen.”

“I assume she was quite young when she married him.”

“She is only nineteen now and she has been a widow for at least six months.”

Darcy nodded solemnly.  “She married him when she was seventeen or eighteen.  Full young to be married in my opinion.  A woman needs to move in society and look about her before she agrees to a suitor.”

Fitzwilliam looked over at him, surprised.  “I did not know you held this opinion, Cousin.”

“Neither did I until Ramsgate and until meeting Miss Bennet.  If Miss Lydia is not sixteen, then the eldest Miss Bennet must be two and twenty.”

“And Elizabeth Bennet is the second sister?”

“Indeed.”  Darcy stuck his walking stick into the gravel.

That would make Elizabeth Bennet twenty or twenty-one.  She would have been out in society for two or three years, if her parents had followed protocol and not allowed her out sooner.  Darcy, it seemed, preferred women with decided opinions.  Fitzwilliam (with the help of Mrs. Cullen once they were married) would have to look about him and find someone suitable.

The Darcy’s were always friends with the late Viscount Bridgerton.  There were several Bridgerton daughters.  He wondered if any of them would be suitable.  George Darcy, Darcy’s father, had married the daughter of an Earl.  It would not go awry if Darcy married the daughter of a Viscount.  The connection would be quite profitable for Pemberley and for Georgiana, specifically, who with her fortune, could well marry a title.

There was no one for tea that day, so the cousins played billiards.

Darcy went out for his walk the next morning, but came back disappointed.  Fitzwilliam posited he did not find Miss Bennet who seemed to be avoiding him.

When they went out to the boardwalk with the picnic basket, they found Mrs. Cullen.

“Isabella,” Fitzwilliam greeted, kissing the back of her hand.  “Thank you for making the time.”

“You know I have nothing to do but embroider,” she chided, “and I have more cushions than I have chairs.”

Fitzwilliam laughed at this.  “I am certain being a lady of leisure is most disagreeable at times.”

“Indeed,” she agreed as they spread out their blanket.

It was Darcy who was going to make the proposal as it was his carriage and his house from which they might be married.

The cheese was got out and Mrs. Cullen began to peel the apples.

“Well,” Darcy began.  “You cannot be married here, so you need to be married elsewhere.  I take it, Mrs. Cullen, that you wish to marry Fitzwilliam.”

She blushed at the question.  “I seem to have decided before even considering the question,” she answered honestly.  “I know it will be a different life that at present I cannot contemplate.”

“It is well that you are aware of that,” Darcy agreed, accepting several slices of apple that she offered him.  “At first I was going to lend my carriage so that you could elope to Gretna Green.”

“Oh dear,” Bella wondered aloud, looking over to Fitzwilliam.  “I suppose that is the only option.”

“It would create a scandal,” Fitzwilliam told her, “and we would involve Darcy in that scandal.  Lady Catherine and all of Hunsford would immediately know.”

“Yes,” she agreed carefully.  “You said ‘at first.’”

“Our new plan is that you tell your maid or housekeeper that you are going to visit friends in Cambridge or wherever is plausible, and when we leave, we shall pick you up with your travel bag on the edge of Rosings Park, and we shall travel to London together.”  Darcy pierced her with a look.  “We shall, of course, provide you with separate accommodations.”

“May I bring Lucy?” Mrs. Cullen asked.  “My maid?”

“We have room for her,” Fitzwilliam checked.

“It would make your escape more plausible,” Darcy agreed.  “She would also ensure your modesty.”

“Then what would happen?” Mrs. Cullen asked.

“You would either elope to Scotland,” Darcy told her, “or you will stay as a guest of Darcy House and be married from there respectably by special license.”

“I suppose I should write my solicitor so I can access my funds,” Mrs. Cullen thought aloud.  “That way I can buy a wedding dress.”

Fitzwilliam was pleasantly surprised.  “That seems most appropriate.”

“You have a marriage portion?” Darcy checked.

“Yes,” she agreed, looking at Fitzwilliam carefully.  “Twenty-five thousand pounds in the five percents.  Edward never touched it.”

Fitzwilliam sucked in a breath.  He was marrying an heiress and would be most comfortably settled the rest of his life.  They could rent a townhouse in London on the income alone.

“No one knows,” Mrs. Cullen added.

“Indeed,” Darcy murmured.  “We leave in approximately three weeks’ time.  You should make your arrangements.”

She nodded.  “I await Richard’s orders.”

He laughed a little.  “You are not an officer, Isabella.”

“No,” she murmured.  “But is this not a military campaign?”

“I suppose it is,” he agreed, “although Darcy is our commanding officer.”

She looked over at him.  “Forgive me, Mr. Darcy, but you are not a redcoat with rank.”

He bowed his head.  “I quite see your point, Mrs. Cullen.  I am not offended.”

When Fitzwilliam and Darcy were returning to Rosings after a pleasant hour and a half in Mrs. Cullen’s company, Darcy murmured, “I suppose I shall only be engaged when we make our escape from Rosings.  Miss Bennet shall want to be married from Longbourn.”

Fitzwilliam held back a grimace.  “One marriage at a time, Cousin.  You will have your time, soon, if that is what you wish.”

Darcy looked over at him with green eyes and nodded.  “Has she commented on our looks?”

“No.”  Fitzwilliam kept on walking.

“What will you tell her if she does?”

“What would you like me to tell her?”

Darcy considered.  “I do not know.”

“Then we shall decide when it becomes a problem,” Fitzwilliam decided.  “She may never know if she never sees my father.”

“She has seen Lady Catherine and Anne,” Darcy reminded him.

“But she does not question the world around her,” Fitzwilliam told him.  “It is not that she is incurious, it is only that she trusts what she is told.”

“Shall you like having such a biddable wife?” Darcy questioned.  They were now coming up to the lawns.

Fitzwilliam shook his head.  “It is not that she is biddable.  She comes from magic and I see a spark of that magic every time I look in her eyes.”

“It is a wild magic,” Darcy warned.  “Are you saying she is wild?”

Pausing, Fitzwilliam admitted, “I think she could be if I gave her the opportunity.”

The two cousins shared a long look. 

“You wish for her to be wild when you are alone,” Darcy realized.  “She is a lady in public, but a native when you take her hair down and undress her.  You are taking a great risk if you are wrong.”

“You have not seen the spark in her eyes,” Fitzwilliam told him.  “You do not know her like I do.”

“Better to have a woman that bends the rules of propriety, so you know what she is like when the doors are closed.”

Oh, so that was the reason behind Darcy’s fascination with Miss Elizabeth Bennet. 

“I do not want such influence on Georgiana.  Whatever magic resides in Isabella’s gaze, she remains the perfect lady outside of her occasional flutter when she is in society.  ‘Tis not the case with Elizabeth Bennet.  Besides, you said the Bennet Family was unsuitable when you separated the eldest Miss Bennet from Bingley.  If they were unsuitable for Bingley, then they are unsuitable for you.”

“I shall separate her from her family.”

They had now come into the hall and Fitzwilliam handed off the basket to a footman.  “You cannot separate a woman from her connections.  They always come back when you least expect them.”

Darcy merely shook his head.  “You will see I am in the right.”

It was Monday and the vicar was to dine again on Thursday.  Fitzwilliam could tell that Darcy was frustrated when he came back from his morning walks.  When he asked Darcy, he said that Miss Bennet seemed to be needed at the parsonage.

She was avoiding him then.

When the vicar and his wife arrived, Miss Bennet was not with them.  “A headache,” Mrs. Collins explained.

Darcy, after half an hour, made his excuses, and Fitzwilliam saw him walking across the grounds not ten minutes later.

He returned in a foul mood and did not come down for dinner.

When the vicar and his wife had left, Fitzwilliam carefully went into the billiards room.  Darcy was cracking billiards balls viciously.

“What is it?” he asked.

“Write Mrs. Cullen.  We leave at first light.”

“We do?” he asked, going to a writing desk and drawing out some paper.  “Have you told Lady Catherine?”

“I will leave her a note at breakfast and tell her urgent business calls us back to London.”

Finishing the note, Fitzwilliam quickly sealed it with wax, pressing his army signet ring into it.  “I must take this to the village,” he apologized.  “It is getting dark.”  He went up to his cousin and lay a hand on his shoulder.

Darcy uncharacteristically shook it off.  Something had gone awry with Miss Bennet, something horrible.

Fitzwilliam called for his horse and rode to Hunsford, tying up his steed in the townsquare and walking to Mrs. Cullen’s lodgings.  He handed the note to the maid and waited for a response.  One came ten minutes later, folded into parchment.  “I will be there, ISC.”  Isabella Swan Cullen.  It was all set.

When he arrived back at Rosings Park, it was to find the house all locked up.  He packed his trunks himself, leaving out a fresh uniform and went to bed.

Darcy was the one who shook him awake, well before dawn.

The carriage was loaded up and they departed before any of the servants were awake, only a couple of stable hands about to get the carriage ready.  They rode out of the park and came to the crossroads, Mrs. Cullen fortunately waiting with a carpet bag and her maid, holding a lamp due to the earliness of the hour.

Fitzwilliam helped her into the carriage, the maid sitting up front, and the three travelers fell into silence.

Darcy was in a dark mood.

Mrs. Cullen looked between them in confusion, but kept her counsel.

They stopped for an early lunch, and Darcy prowled about the inn murderously.

“What’s wrong?” Mrs. Cullen asked.

“I think he asked Miss Bennet to marry him last night,” Fitzwilliam murmured.  “I do not think he got the answer he was expecting.”

“Oh dear.”  Mrs. Cullen went back to her mutton.

They were soon back on the road.

It took them three days to reach London, but by then Darcy had returned to his usual taciturn self.  They reached Darcy House and, as Darcy had sent an express, there was a room waiting for Mrs. Cullen.

Fitzwilliam stood with her in the entryway as the servants carried trunks in around them.  “I go for the special license tomorrow,” he promised.  “We shall be married by the end of the week.”

“This house is very fine,” Mrs. Cullen agreed worriedly.  “I would be afraid to touch anything.”

“I am certain the barracks are much more what you are used to.”  Fitzwilliam drew her in closer and kissed her carefully.  They had the rest of their lives ahead of them.  They just needed to reach out and grasp it.

The End.