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Chapter 1: Glimpsing Grace

Posted on 2010-12-12

There was a chilling calm which rested on the dark surface of the water. The only movement was in the silent rippling of the blood red rose petals on the water's surface. Broken pieces just like her heart. The dew on the early morning grass coldly claimed its mark upon her bare feet and spread through her whole body. As she stared at the water she could only think of how fitting it was that upon the surface the water may be calm, but beneath it there was a torrent of activity. Calm she may appear, but calm she was not.

Looking heavenward, at the night sky with its sparkling stars, the light began to dim as clouds swiftly moved to block the light of the moon. It felt colder now. Colder and more threatening the air shifted with malevolence trying to fight back the light that threatened to come by way of the moon. A sigh escaped her as she tightened the shawl around her shoulders and stood, fully preparing to return into the house and the warmth of the fire, when she realized one thing and that was that something was terribly and irrevocably wrong.

A shallow wind shifted the wisps of hair on her face and for once in her life Grace MacKenna was afraid. She was afraid of what came next. She was afraid of the shadows which threatened to consume her in her misery. A rainstorm of tears fell down her face and she let out an anguished cry which carried itself across the fields to the forest which surrounded the estate. She screamed until her throat was raw and she had crumpled to the ground in a broken desperation of a ravaged spirit.

He was gone!

Somewhere to Gretna Green, perhaps never to be seen again, but that wasn't the worst of it, the worst was that she had believed he had loved her. The great Grace MacKenna had been duped again by the idle thoughtlessness of a man whose only goal was moving the chess pieces across the board. It didn't matter what piece was taken from the board, all that mattered was the conquest because that is what scoundrels did; they made conquests and held no regard for the results of the endgame.

He had painted her a blue sky. He had made her smile and laugh with his engaging manner. She had been disarmed by how everything seemed to effortlessly come to him. Her virtue was still safely locked away, but there was no doubt that her innocence had been broken. At three and twenty she felt much older; it was as if this one final event with him had aged her way beyond her years. She was tired.

His eyes had been so beautiful. He'd made her feel special. She couldn't see his faults then and sometimes she still could not grasp how it had all gone wrong. She had missed the looks and the flirtations he had carried out with other women behind closed doors. She had missed his clandestine affairs behind the curtains of ball rooms and in the shaded darkness of a rose garden. She had missed the insults to her person subtly made. She had missed the true nature of the man and was blinded by what she had wanted to see. She had been greatly deceived. She had been burned down by a man with no care for her.

George Wickham had set her on fire!

And just like that George Wickham doused the flames with reality leaving but smoldering embers.

That anguished cry was what startled Richard Fitzwilliam astride his horse. He had been lost deep in remembrances of his battle torn mind. It was on nights like this that he wandered the countryside. It was the nights when he could not sleep because his memories of battle haunted his slumber in attempts to draw him back into their terrifying snare that he was forced to wander as if he was a lost soul meant to forever roam the countryside looking for a home. Trying to locate that source of such a retching cry Richard spurred his stallion through the foggy terrain.
It was some minutes before he beheld the silhouette of a woman through the fog. Her fiery auburn locks where almost like a burning beacon to him in the night. She wasn't moving, but was a motionless heap on the froze ground. Richard had been so transfixed that he had unconsciously moved his horse closer and it was then that she slowly turned her head towards him and their eyes met. The most startling emerald green eyes started back at him. They were beautiful and as dormant as the rose bushes in his mother's garden. He had never seen the eyes of a living person look so dead.

Grace stared at the stranger before her. He was tall and his presence was strong. His blonde hair was disheveled and his brown eyes studied her and held her transfixed. He had a beautiful horse. He carried himself well atop such a fine stallion. The stranger's voice broke through her thoughts.

"Miss is everything alright?"

His voice sounded like smooth chocolate and burning embers. It was a mixture of rough and smooth. It was a masculine voice which bespoke of authority. Still holding his gaze Grace opened her mouth to speak before a sense of self preservation seemed to grab a hold of her as she realized the stranger had left the top of his stallion and meant to approach her, and she bolted as fast as she could back to the estate. Grace expected the sound of hoof beats to follow her, but none ever came. She had made it back to the estate unscathed.

Lady Amelia Matlock sat down at the breakfast table and regarded her youngest Richard, who at the moment was staring pensively out the window. If he wasn't careful he was going to resemble his cousin Fitzwilliam Darcy before he'd met the wonderful woman, Elizabeth, who became his wife. Richard was not quite the same after he'd returned from France and despite being retired from the Army now he still looked battered and bruised. This morning he looked like he hadn't slept at all.

"Are you alright Richard?" murmured Lady Amelia before taking a sip of earl grey. Lady Amelia Fitzwilliam always attempted to present a calm disposition while inquiring after instances which gave her great worry. For her children, all her children, meant a great deal to her and it gave her great pain to see one of her flesh and blood so wounded and so clearly in an immense amount of turmoil. While it may never have been expressed it was fact that Richard was by far her favorite child and to see him look as he did now did not sit well with her.

Richard turned slightly towards his mother. "I'm perfectly alright, why wouldn't I be?"

"You look tired."

Turning back to the window Richard sighed. Of course he didn't look well. He'd woken up in a cold sweat the night before. He dreamt every night about his time fighting Napoleon. He could still hear the screams of agony and smell the blood soaking into the earth. Every time he closed his eyes he could see the tangled and detached limbs of the fallen. He remembered the look on the faces of dead men whose mouths still hung open in silent screams and who's eyes had never closed but still registered the shock and brief pain of being wounded before falling down to the earth to die. It was those nights that he wondered on horseback through the countryside trying to regain some semblance of normal. It was during his ride last night that he'd met the mysterious vision. He had been shocked and he wondered if he had actually seen the redhead who looked as dead as the visions of the men in his dreams. She had bolted in terror when he'd tried to approach her and he'd been left standing dumbfounded as she slowly disappeared from view. He should have gone after her, but a feeling had come over him which prevented such folly. She obviously wanted solitude.

"Richard, remember we are to call on Lord and Lady MacKenna today."

Richard nodded towards his mother in acknowledgement and left the breakfast room. He quickly made way to his room to compose a letter to his cousin and esteemed friend Fitzwilliam Darcy before he was to depart with his mother to the humble estate of Lord and Lady MacKenna. It was fair to acknowledge that Mr. Darcy was more like a brother to him and perhaps it would do him good to remove himself to the good company of Mr. and Mrs. Darcy of Pemberley. It was clear that he was upsetting his mother which only made his illness of mind more difficult to suppress.

Lady Amelia furrowed her brow and let out a deep sigh. She turned towards Lord Matlock who had just seated himself and exclaimed "Something is not right with Richard."

Lord Henry looked at his dear wife in surprise. "I'm not sure I understand you my dear."

Lady Amelia was not surprised the her husband had failed to notice Richard's disposition. It was not that he did not love Richard, but he always seemed to favor their daughter, Lady Emily. Taking another sip of her tea she leveled her husband with a stare and stated plainly "Have you not noticed a change in Richard since his return from France?"

Henry smiled and patted his wife's hand. "My dear, you concern yourself overtly with Richard's affairs. Richard is seven and twenty and can nigh take care of himself. He does not need us surrounding ourselves with his business. Whatever demons ail our dear Richard he will be able to conquer on his own."

Looking askance at her husband Lady Amelia cried, "How can you be so unfeeling when one of our children clearly needs our aide!"

In truth Henry was not blind to the change in his son's disposition. In fact, he had noticed very acutely the darkness that seemed to surround his youngest. It gave him pause and in turn a great deal of concern. Perhaps, it was not the wisest course to present the appearance to his wife that he was indifferent. "Amelia" he murmured "I apologize for misleading you. I am well aware of the change in Richard. However, I don't think there is much to be done until which time Richard decides to confide in us. "

Amelia was faced with the wisdom of her husband's words however much it pained her. It was with a sigh of despair and a loving look at her
husband that she took pleasure when he raised her hand to his lips and murmured "Dear heart how I love thee."

Richard and his mother Lady Amelia had arrived at the MacKenna estate and had been settled into the drawing room for nigh an hour, partaking in tea and scones, before Richard began to lose interest in the conversation of lace and the gossip of the ton. It was this predicament which found Richard again staring silently out the window. How he longed for some peace from his personal hell. It was a wonder he still managed to remain alert some days, as sleep continued to elude him most proficiently. He had seen so much and yet, at times, it felt as if he had not left the battlefield.

"Colonel Fitzwilliam….Colonel Fitzwilliam". Richard turned suddenly, being shaken from his reverie by the soft Irish lilt of Lady MacKenna.

"I apologize, Madame. My mind seems to be wandering elsewhere."

"It would appear so. Perhaps, you would enjoy a turn in the gardens," suggested Lady MacKenna.

With a quick bow towards his mother and Lady MacKenna Richard made an exit from the drawing room and proceeded towards the garden. However, Richard had only preceded a few steps before he was assailed by a soft voice and the melancholy ministrations of the piano.

" Oh come, Oh come, Emmanuel
To free your captive Israel
That mourns in lonely exile here
Until the Son of God appear
Rejoice, rejoice, Oh Israel
To you shall come Emmanuel

Oh come, Thou Rod of Jesse, free
Thine own from Satan's tyranny
From depths of Hell Thy people save
And give them victory o'er the grave…*"

At the creaking sound of the door and the click of footsteps Grace's fingers stumbled on the keys and her voice caught and her breathing became labored as she feared to turn around and see who had disturbed her seclusion.

"Please forgive me for disturbing your playing, but I heard your voice and…."

Whirling around at the sound of his voice Richard came face to face with the young woman whom he had encountered on his nightly rambling. In the light of day her hair was a deep red and her eyes were still a startling emerald shade of mystery. Her lips were full and she possessed a pleasing figure. Realizing the impropriety of the situation Richard gave a small bow and introduced himself, "Colonel Richard Fitzwilliam."

When the lady made no immediate move to return the favor of introductions Richard feared he had perhaps done something to offend her. He had made the decision to turn on his heel and leave so as not to prolong the awkwardness of the situation when he was halted by the musical sound of her voice.

"I am Grace MacKenna, Colonel. Please excuse my poor manners."

*O Come Emmanuel is a translation of a Latin Hymn. The origins of the hymn are unclear, but it is believed to be 8th or 12th century. The version I used for inspiration was from Enya and it appears on her album And Winter Came.

Chapter 2: Dancing with Grace

Posted on 2010-12-18

"You are Irish" he blurted out. Richard cringed at his lack of good manners himself. For a man who had commanded on the battlefield he was making a mockery of himself in conversation. Glancing at Lady Grace he thought he detected a hint of a smile.

"I do believe that to be so Colonel. I hope that does not dampen your opinion of me."

"Indeed it does not Lady Grace. I was merely attempting to find a topic of conversation."

"I can see how that might be difficult."

Richard took a breath as he tried to think of something else to say. He had always been at ease among strangers, but it seemed that he found himself less inclined to converse given his fatigue. He continued to stand in the music room and an awkward silence ensured between him and Lady Grace for some time before he broke it and exclaimed, "Lady Grace I was on my way to take a turn about the garden. Perhaps you would be so kind as to accompany me as I am not familiar with the direction."

Hesitating Grace looked anywhere but at the Colonel before deciding that it could do no harm to show the Colonel the garden. "I will accompany you, but I fear I will not be good company."

"How would you not be?" Richard said while giving Grace his arm. Grace glanced at the Colonel and then proceeded to lead him in the direction of the garden. "I fear I am not myself." It was some moments before Richard answered. "I must apologize for startling you last night."

Grace stopped abruptly and pulled away from him. They had just reached the area of the garden where, despite the winter temperatures, a tree hung low enough to conceal their faces from view. Turning to face Colonel Fitzwilliam she stared pensively for a few moments at his face as if trying to compose herself before looking down while pursing her lips. What was she to say to Colonel Fitzwilliam who had seen her at her most vulnerable? Carefully she spoke, "I am sorry you had to see me as such. As I said I have not been myself."

Richard looked at Grace for a moment while taking in her rigid posture and worried countenance. A gust of wind came from behind her causing some of her hair to fall loose from their pins and her dress to flutter around her ankles and it was then he realized that she was out doors in the dead of winter with no coat to warm her. He proceeded to remove his greatcoat and went to place it around her shoulders. "You must be cold." He stated in a matter of fact manner.

However, Grace halted the Colonel's attempt and holding the greatcoat in front of her in order to return it to him, exclaimed, "I have ceased to feel the cold some time ago." Grace turned to continue down the path that they had begun to walk.

Richard stood for a moment with his brows furrowed before striding after her. "Lady Grace I really must protest. It is much too cold out here. You will fall sick. Please allow me to lend you the use of my coat." In the middle of his exclamation he again tried to place the greatcoat around Grace's shoulders, but he was again thwarted by her excellent evasive maneuver. "I have already told you Colonel Fitzwilliam that I do not require the use of your coat."

Being a military man Richard was quite unaccustomed to having his requests questioned and in fact he was more accustomed to having them followed without argument. So, it was with great indignation he protested what was clearly Grace's obstinate attitude. "I really must insist that you make use of my coat Lady Grace."

Grace whirled around to face the Colonel. Her hands were clenched, her shoulders were tense and her eyes flashed. It was the first spark of life Colonel Fitzwilliam had seen in them since he first met her. However, Colonel Fitzwilliam was not to be deterred. It really was too cold out here for Lady Grace to be without warmth. Grace's breath was coming in little white puffs due to the cold and finally releasing a long irritated breath she replied, "Colonel I really do thank you for your hospitality, but I do not require the use of your coat."

"I will not take no for an answer Lady Grace. You either take the coat or we will simply return to the house." Richard watched as her mouth dropped in a most unladylike manner while he leaned back on his heels and a satisfied smirk appeared at the corners of his mouth as he perceived what was to be a victory; however the Colonel was not prepared for Lady Grace's next point of attack. Lifting her head high with dignity Lady Grace picked up her skirts and shot a defiant gaze in the Colonel's direction while she marched straight past and proceeded in the direction of the house.

It took only a moment for Richard's eyes to narrow before he turned and quickly moved to outflank Grace, but it was not to be his day as no sooner had he entered the house but he ran into his mother and Lady MacKenna. Lady Grace was nowhere in sight.

It was not until he and his mother were getting ready to depart and as he was about to ascend into the carriage that he seemed to have the desire to turn back. It was in an upstairs window that he perceived Lady Grace staring down at them, her posture still one of unequalled defiance, and so he tipped his hat in her direction as if to mock her defiance and he stepped into the carriage.

Grace watched the Colonel get ready to depart. Despite her annoyance at the Colonel she could not deny that he struck a fine figure. He must have been most impressive in his regimentals. She had not been lying when she had declared she was not cold and it had frustrated her that the Colonel did not believe her. When George Wickham had married another some three months ago was when the cold had ceased to bother her. She really was numb to it all and it would be sometime before she realized that sometimes even the coldest of ice could be melted by a passionate flame.

Grace remained upstairs for sometime after the departure of the Colonel. She was ashamed at her behavior towards him, but it was her damnable Irish temper which caused her to react so. Many times her father had remarked that her fiery red hair matched her Irish temperament which meant that she had a will of her own. Sometimes that caused her a great deal of trouble and today she had proceeded to display her willful nature to Colonel Fitzwilliam. Why did Colonel Fitzwilliam have to be so insistent she wear his greatcoat. He should have just left well enough alone, but no, he had to demand that she take his greatcoat as if she was some prized animal to be ordered about. Humph! The nerve! Well, thought Grace, I should perhaps show my face at dinner.

It was not until the next morning, when the rain created a torrential downpour and she was miserably trying not to sneeze for that millionth time that she realized that perhaps she wasn't as immune to the cold after all.

It was some weeks later and Grace was sufficiently recovered from her illness, that she found herself at a ball. It was not a place she wanted to be and so this ball found Grace hiding in a corner slightly sheltered by a curtain near the doorway to the veranda leading down to the estate garden. Her mother and father had insisted she come to this pathetic excuse for social interaction. They insisted the only way she would overcome the horrible incident with George Wickham was to remain in the open and not to hide herself away, but it was a ball like this which caused her great pain. It was just one more reminder of her foolishness. Besides the only reason her parents had made her come was that they still held some hope of marrying her off despite the scandal.

Besides, she could hear the whispers about her tittering around the ballroom. She pretended to ignore them but she knew that she was a topic of gossip. The society matrons seized on falls from grace such as this. She was practically as good a ruined and no self respecting gentleman would dance with her if he didn't want to be shunned himself. Society was good at shutting out those whose propriety, morals and manners were questionable. Perhaps, her exile to the fringes of the ballroom was less pronounced in the country, but she had no doubt of its existence. Grace tried not to cry as she realized that they wouldn't even talk to her. She just wanted to go home.

While Grace was struggling to face the reality of her situation Lord and Lady Matlock, their elder son Lord Vincent and Colonel Fitzwilliam had arrived. A stir went up through the crowd as it was not often that the family came into society. The commotion caused Colonel Fitzwilliam to sigh because he was a younger son, which meant the likelihood of him being considered an eligible match was not likely, no; they were excited for the presence of his elder brother. Scanning the room quickly he saw many that he knew, but it was the presence of emerald green melancholy glimmering in the shadows near the veranda which halted him.

After making his excuses Richard made the journey towards the veranda and the emerald green, which called him like a moth to a flame. As he approached the red hair that was distinctive to Lady Grace alone was illuminated by the moon coming into the house. Bathed in shadowed moonlight Lady Grace looked like a mysterious fairy, untouchable. Her gown was a deep blue which only accentuated her features to even more advantage. Colonel Fitzwilliam bowed. "Good Evening."

Grace stood frozen as she looked scandalized at the Colonel's behavior. Surely he must know that she was not to be spoken to, but that she was to remain in the shadows away from every young impressionable unmarried woman. Grace began to panic. "Colonel Fitzwilliam." She acknowledged. "I don't think you should be speaking to me."

"Not speak to you? Lady Grace I see no harm in a simple conversation." Richard was confused at her behavior. She had always been somewhat frigid towards him, but he did not understand why she did not seem interested in continuing their acquaintance.

Grace looked at the Colonel pleadingly. "Please," she whispered. "I am tainted. It will ruin you to be seen with me." He looked down into her eyes and he did not doubt the truth behind her words, but it unsettled him greatly. "I am a younger son Lady Grace. I am already tainted myself."

"Yes, but Colonel Fitzwilliam you do not carry the shame that I do." Grace hoped the Colonel would leave well enough alone and he did, but she was surprised at the dark shadow which appeared across his face as he muttered, "I would not be too sure about that estimation Lady Grace."

They stood for some time in silence, each assessing the crowd. Then Colonel Fitzwilliam turned and held his hand out to Grace. "Would you honor me with a dance?" Grace gasped in shock and protested profusely. "But Colonel people will talk." Colonel Fitzwilliam turned to her and held her gaze as he murmured "Let them talk. For I would consider it a great honor if you would dance with me."

Grace hesitated. This was folly. He did not know what he was doing. He would regret this after he was cast out too, but she didn't have time to continue to think because the Colonel took her hand and led her to the dance floor as shocked gasps and scandalized gazes took in the fallen Lady Grace and recently returned war hero Colonel Fitzwilliam taking a turn on the floor.

The occupants of the room were astounded at the impropriety that they believed to have just been displayed by Lady Grace. To stand up with a war hero such as Colonel Fitzwilliam who was an honorable gentleman and the son of an Earl was scandalous, indeed! Lady Grace was more disgraceful than previously thought.

The set had begun despite the vicious remarks circulating the room. Grace was very conscious of the scandal this would create and as far as she was concerned none of this could end well. Grace studied Colonel Fitzwilliam's chiseled features before remarking "You are accustomed to getting your way Colonel." It was not a question, but more of a statement.

Richard smiled sheepishly at Lady Grace and gave a shrug. "I am a military man Lady Grace. It runs in the blood." Grace returned his smile with a tight smile of her own. "Then I hope your armor is tough Colonel for this dance will deal heavy ramifications."

"I am accustomed to dogging cannons and gunfire Lady Grace." Richard flinched at the reminder of where he had once been. Grace noted the movement but chose to ignore it before stating, "I have no doubt of your resilience Colonel, I am just concerned about your health."

Meanwhile, Lady Amelia Matlock was becoming angrier at the noise around her. Her brow was furrowed and her lips were in a tight line as she heard the vicious whispers in regards to Lady Grace circulate around her like poison. It was astounding how they all acted like a bunch of sniveling sheep ready to follow anyone off a cliff. It was unfair that Lady Grace MacKenna had been dealt such a blow. Lady Amelia and even Lady Grace did not know it yet, but over time Lady Amelia would become one of Lady Grace's most ardent supporters. However, that was not to be at the present, instead Lady Amelia kept her silence as her anger sparked.

The dance shared between Colonel Fitzwilliam and Lady Grace came to an end much to the relief of the mama's of unmarried daughters. It was a little known fact, but Colonel Fitzwilliam had made himself quite a small fortune upon his retirement from the Army. He had also been granted a small estate in the county of Devonshire. So, while a second son, he was an eligible match who was deemed available to the marriage market.

Colonel Fitzwilliam was escorting Lady Grace off the floor when a loud crash from some drunken guests falling into a table and in turn splintering it, caused the Colonel to stiffen and stop abruptly. His face had become ashen and he was suddenly seen moving quickly towards the veranda.

Lady Grace stood where the Colonel had left her in confusion before picking up her skirts and following him. She knew she had scandalized the crowd once more as she heard once again the murmurs of shock, but seeing as she was already cast out she just considered this one more thing they could hold against her. By the time she made it down the veranda steps she could barely see the sprinting outline of the Colonel in the distance.

Colonel Fitzwilliam meanwhile was caught in a terror of his own. At the sound of the splintering table, coupled with the men falling on it he had been taken back to his time in France fighting Napoleon. A part of him knew he was home in England and safe, but the other part of him had associated the noise with something truly dreadful which caused him to run far from the house so the rest of society wouldn't have to see how broken he had become. If they ever saw him like this they would surely lock him away for being not in his right mind. By the time Richard reached an alcove of trees a thin sheen of perspiration had formed along his forehead and his breathing was heavy.

As the rain started to fall he was transported back to a particularly bloody battle that he had been involved in which had cost many lives. The canon fire had been deafening and the screams of agony and terror almost drowned them out. He remembered his horse had been shot out from under him and as he struggled to get up he slipped on a combination of mud and blood. He was covered in blood and yet given his red uniform you would have never known it but for the darker outlines staining his coat. It was the snapping of a twig which caused him to whirl around in concealed terror. "Get away from me." He shouted while aiming his pistol at the French solider that had approached him. "Get away from me."

"Colonel Fitzwilliam," cried Grace. She was terrified as she was not sure what was wrong with the Colonel. It was clear from the expression on his face that he was not even coherent of where he was. "Colonel Fitzwilliam it's me Grace, Grace MacKenna." The Colonel showed no indication that he had heard her. Grace made a cautionary step toward him and let out a squeak of terror as Colonel Fitzwilliam grabbed her to him and proceeded to bring his strong forearm to her throat. Grace went rigid as she tried to pull the Colonel's arm from her neck. "Colonel Fitzwilliam….please it's me Grace," she exclaimed, "Richard you're hurting me."*

Grace's final plea seemed to work its way through Colonel Fitzwilliam's hazy and muddled mind. He abruptly let Grace go and fell to the ground. "Oh G-d." exclaimed Richard as he dropped his face into his hands and let out a chocked sob "Lady Grace I'm so sorry. I…I don't know what came over me."

Grace dropped to the ground with him. Her worried face came into Richard's view. "Colonel, are you alright?"

Richard looked at her in shock. After he nearly choked her to death because he thought himself back in France she wanted to know if he was alright. He felt so lost right now. He could not believe he had almost caused serious harm to this woman and she didn't seem the least bit concerned about herself. He could see the slight bruising starting to form around her neck and he felt as if his heart had been pierced with a knife. Cautiously he reached out his hand and touched his fingers to her neck. He heard her sharp intake of breath and he paused, but her emerald green eyes stared straight back at him and held his brown eyes.

Grace stared at the Colonel in wonderment. Who was this man and what had happened to him to cause him to have such darkness hanging over his head. She was soaked through from the rain and the biting wind added to the frigid air, but she did not seem to feel much. Then the Colonel's fingers touched her skin and she felt a heat enter into her that she had never experienced before. "Are you alright Colonel?" she breathed.

"I'm sorry I have bruised you," murmured Richard. Richard was still gazing at Grace when she said, "So, you have marked me then." It was an innocent statement on Lady Grace's part, but Colonel Fitzwilliam's nostrils flared at the implications. Suddenly realizing the impropriety of their current predicament he quickly removed his hand and stood up. Grace found herself morning the loss of his touch for she once again felt cold inside.

"Are you truly unharmed Lady Grace?" He turned and held out his hand to her. Taking his hand Lady Grace allowed the Colonel to help her off the ground before responding, "I am truly fine Colonel, but I am concerned about you."

The Colonel gave her hand a quick squeeze and a small smile. "I will recover. I apologize for my behavior, I sometimes forget that I am no longer in France, but safe home in England." Lady Grace stood before him and nodded. "I suspected as much and I am truly sorry for whatever horrors you had to witness, but remember you are now among friends. There is no need to fear us."

The Colonel gave his arm to Lady Grace before he replied, "You are to kind." They proceeded to walk towards the house as the rain had reduced itself to a drizzle, but both were soaked through. Given their appearance the Colonel guided Lady Grace towards the side of the house before disappearing inside in order to retrieve Lord and Lady MacKenna so they could escort her home without the rest of society passing judgment on her appearance. If only the Colonel had realized that he was throwing Grace into the lion's den.

*Colonel Fitzwilliam is experiencing what we today would call Post Traumatic Stress Disorder or PTSD. The form of PTSD that he suffers from here is typically termed re-experiencing. He relives the events in his dreams or something triggers a response which causes him to re-experience the events. Not much would have been known about this condition during the 19th century, in fact they actually called this condition Railway Spine, which meant those who would have exhibited the signs of PTSD would have been considered mentally unstable or suffers of hysteria. For a brief explanation of PTSD visit this link http://expertpages.com/news/ptsd.htm.

Another example in literature of a more famous character with PTSD is that of Frodo Baggins in the Lord of the Rings. J.R.R. Tolkien himself was a soldier in World War I and drawing on his experiences (he was a sufferer of PTSD), it is said that he modeled the character of Frodo Baggins after himself.

Chapter 3: Where nothing is as it seems and parental tyranny is alive and well

Richard had said very little on the carriage ride back to Matlock house. Instead, upon entering the house he had grabbed a bottle of brandy from the library and proceeded upstairs to one of the farthest rooms in the house and he closeted himself away. The bedroom was hardly ever used and it was far enough away from the other occupants that any noise he may have been induced to make would be quelled by the distance.

Richard uncorked the bottle of brandy and took a quick drink before setting it down briefly. He quickly removed his jacket and waistcoat and let them fall to the ground in a sopping heap. The moonlight shown into the room which created a mysterious appearance by the shadows which seemed to be at play with the moonbeams, but it suited Richard's mood just fine. He picked up the brandy and took another long drink as he stood in front of the window and stared out into the night. If only he could be as free to move as the darkness seemed to be.

Richard was lost in the demons of his own mind. He found himself even more tortured by the fact that he had caused harm to Lady Grace. Yet, he knew not what to make of this exquisite creature, which despite her apparent melancholy, had a shimmering fire beneath the surface which was refusing to burn. It was as if a wall of ice kept her fire contained which he found intrigued him only more. Then there was her apparent fear and mistrust of society which puzzled him. What was she have supposed to have done to be cast aside like that? She had done her best to get him away from her, but he was not to be removed from his course, no, he had planned to speak with her and dance with her, as he had. He had been well aware of the whispers that had swelled through the room when he had taken the floor with her, but he would be dam-ed if he was going to let that scare him away.

Richard's eyes glittered as they stared out the window. He took another drink from the bottle of brandy. He was halfway on his way to being drunk which meant he may sleep peacefully tonight for his mind would be too numb to remember the horrors of battle. What would Lady Grace think of him now he wondered as he let the fire slide into his mouth and down his throat. He was standing in his still rain soaked breeches, his jacket and waistcoat sat on the floor in a wet puddle of its own making and he was drinking straight from the brandy bottle in an attempt to numb out the tricks his mind played on him.

The image of Lady Grace MacKenna kneeling on the ground in front of him, her red hair falling out of their pins and becoming soaked by the rain, rain glistening on her skin and the bruises he had left on her, refused to leave his psyche. He also remembered the panicked look on her face just before he had released her and he had realized his mistake, but he knew the first image of her rain soaked red hair and her concerned emerald green eyes would forever haunt him. He never thought he would love the color red again after all the blood he had seen, but her red hair was so perfect on her. It suited her. He may not have known Lady Grace well but what he did know he liked very much.

Suddenly the bottle didn't seem so appealing, but he continued to drink anyways. He would allow himself this one moment of weakness in hopes that he would be rested enough and strong enough to look Lady Grace in the face and apologize for his despicable and ungentlemanly behavior. Silent tears of frustration fell down his face as he curled himself into a dark wall corner. He just wanted to be free of this nightmare. Please, G-d just let me be myself again.

However, sleep was not to come to him. The alcohol may have numbed his body that night, but images of battle and destruction kept him tossing and turning. It would appear that he was to never have peace even with the aid of alcohol.

"How could you Grace. He is an honorable man." cried Lady Mackenna. She was furious at her daughter's behavior this evening.

Grace looked silently at her mother and father. They were angry as she knew they would be. Sure, they wanted her married, but they wanted her married to some old country squire so far away that not one breath of her ruin could reach his ears, ever! Instead, she had danced with Colonel Fitzwilliam who must therefore be out of her reach. She wanted this over with as soon as possible and so she chose to remain silent for the duration of what was to be her tongue lashing.

"I am disappointed in you Grace," her father scolded. "You are to stay away from an honorable gentleman like Colonel Fitzwilliam."

"And just what do you think you were doing running after him? As if you have not created enough scandal. You insolent girl you will ruin this family if you have not already." Lady MacKenna burst into tears at the injustice of it all. They were ruined!

"Do you see what you have done?" cried her father angrily. Lord MacKenna placed his arms around his distraught wife. "I have half a mind to go find George Wickham and bring him back to marry you. Stay away from Colonel Fitzwilliam Grace or you will be cast out of this house. Do you hear me?"

It was a malicious thing to have been said, but when parental tyranny is to be had it is not always of a rational nature and it is often the result of a present lack of affection for ones offspring. Or, perhaps, it is not due to a lack of affection for ones offspring, but perhaps parental tyranny is a result of a desire to control, but whatever the reasons for parental tyranny let it not be assumed that in whatever form it appears that it is not of a despicable nature.*

Grace stared at her father a moment in silence. She had no doubt they would cast her out and she didn't think it was a good time to mention that Colonel Fitzwilliam had not wanted to take no for an answer. They probably wouldn't believe her anyways. Instead, Grace stood up stiffly and gave a curt nod to her father before turning on her heel and escaping to the safety of her bedroom. It was in the safety of her bedroom, as she stared out into the darkness, as rain once again fell down, that she let her tears shimmer forth at the reference her father had made to George Wickham.

George Wickham took in his surroundings in Newcastle from the window of the small room that he and his wife were able to afford. He glanced at the sleeping form of his wife Lydia Wickham (nee Bennet). A frown took hold of his features as his gaze once again turned to take in the gloomy and bleak appearance of Newcastle. He longed for the sight of red hair and green eyes which would have been a welcome sign of color in this dreadful place.

George Wickham had not always been bad. Once upon a time, long ago, he had been a man of honor, but he had strayed from the path of righteousness and had never returned. Having been forced to marry a silly woman such as Lydia had chipped at the debonair armor of charm he had erected around himself. It was safe to say that perhaps George Wickham was not as immune to feeling as had previously been supposed. Perhaps, beneath all of his charm and swagger was a man who had never learned what it was like to love and be loved, but that is a lesson for another day. No, George Wickham was not as charming as he portrayed himself, but even in the bleak surroundings of Newcastle, let it not be said that George Wickham's mind did not stray towards the direction of the Irish beauty known as Grace Mackenna. For, perhaps George Wickham did not know love, but he did know what he wanted and that was a dangerous thing indeed.

Dawn filtered its way into the room to cast its glow on the sleeping form of Colonel Richard Fitzwilliam. The room itself was in angry disarray. Bed linens were strewn on across the floor, mirrors were shattered, objects where overturned and in the middle of all the destruction was an empty brandy bottle. The empty brandy bottle had settled itself some distance from where he slept on the floor and his face gave the illusion of being at peace, but it was clear he had not slept very much the night before, if the dark circles under his eyes and haggard face were any indication to the contrary.

Richard began to stir and he found he had to shield his eyes from the bright glare which was emanating from the sun rising up over the horizon. He felt terrible. His head pounded with the after affects of the night before. He had managed to numb himself last night, but it hadn't stopped his nightmares, nor had it resulted in a happy morning, but then he found that to be true on many occasions. As his eyes slowly began to adjust to the light he heard a sound towards the door and turned. There stood his father Lord Matlock.

Lord Matlock studied his son from where he stood and was not happy with what he saw. It was clear that Richard had been greatly altered by his experiences and it would only be time that would reveal if the Richard he had known and loved from the day he was born was ever to return. As with his wife Amelia, it pained him to see one of his blood look so lost. With a heavy sigh Lord Matlock lowered himself into a chair as if the wind from his sails had been hampered by a violent storm. He looked at Richard for a moment as if contemplating what to say before saying, "Richard, I see we have over indulged ourselves with my brandy."

Richard smiled slightly at his father's words before sitting up. It was a reference to his childhood when he and his older brother Vincent would sneak brandy out of the study while on holiday from school and then proceed to drink the night away, often waking up as he had this morning. Richard glanced at the empty bottle and cringed. "It would appear that I have been naughty."

"Yes. I would say you have my boy." Father and son shared a smile before it became apparent that Lord Matlock had not arrived to partake in small talk. "Richard!" Lord Matlock said softly, "I know you haven't been right since your return from France, but I want you to know that whatever it is your mother and I will support you in whatever it is you need."

Richard dragged a hand down his haggard face. "I am sorry if I have worried you."

Lord Matlock halted his son. "Richard, we just want you to be alright. Your mother and I are here if you need us."

Richard looked pained for a moment as he remembered his behavior. "Father….I….I am not…I hurt her." Lord Matlock gave his son a puzzled look as he had not realized it was a woman who had affected his son so. Seeing his father's look Richard quickly interjected. "No, I….I thought I was still in France…..Oh G-d I almost choked her to death."

Lord Matlock gave a start and jumped out of his chair at Richard's declaration. "Richard!" Lord Matlock exclaimed.

This only seemed to distress Richard more as he dragged his hands through his hair. He abruptly stood up and began to pace. "I didn't mean to. I thought it was a French solider coming after me. I would never willingly hurt her. She's so good and I'm so broken."

Lord Matlock watched his son pace back and forth as he rambled on. He had not realized the extent of Richard's struggles. Would he ever have his son back? Who was this woman that Richard had accidently caused harm to, since it was apparent that the thought of harming her distressed his son so? "Who is she Richard?"

Richard stopped his frantic pacing for a moment. "What!" Lord Matlock repeated his question and then awaited the answer. Richard stared at his father for a moment before whispering "Grace MacKenna."

Suddenly Lord Matlock chuckled."Ah," he murmured.

Richard was not sure what to make of his father's cryptic statement. "What is that supposed to mean?" he demanded.

Lord Matlock placed his arms behind him and rocked back in forth as he smiled at his son. "I believe she may do you some good my dear boy." Richard was shocked as his father slapped him on the back in apparent good humor. "However I think I should mention" said Lord Matlock sobering, "that Lady Grace has had a difficult road and society has turned much of their backs on her and before you ask it is not my story to tell."

Richard nodded. His father had given him much to ponder. "Father, I want you and mother to know that I'm going to be alright. It is just going to take time." It was said as much to reassure his father as it was to reassure himself. He doubted some days of ever being able to find peace, but he was going to try.

Richard and his father parted with the understanding that time would tell the final outcome. It was not the solution either wanted, but it would have to satisfy for the time being.

The chilly morning air brought with it a crisp bite of frigidness which was not likely to part anytime soon, but Colonel Fitzwilliam found he did not mind a he galloped across the moors atop his stallion Thor. It was fair to say that he felt the most free when he was riding Thor. Besides, Thor was a trusted companion and if one was to chance upon Colonel Fitzwilliam unexpectedly one may find him conversing with Thor as if he was a trusted friend. Colonel Fitzwilliam was fast approaching the MacKenna estate and slowed Thor to a trot.

"Well Thor I suspect you are quite pleased with the distance we have covered today. If you are lucky you may get an introduction to a very pretty lady."

Thor snorted in response as if to say he would be very pleased with making the acquaintance of a pretty lady. Richard chuckled and dismounted. It was not an easy task which stood before him. It was not that he was poor with apologies, he was just poor with apologizes where he had nearly chocked the pretty lady to death. As if sensing his master's struggle Thor nuzzled him in the face which garnered a smile from Richard and gave him all the courage he needed to carry on with his task.

Colonel Fitzwilliam was ushered into the sitting room where Lord and Lady MacKenna were seated in quiet conversation. The rose to greet him. He performed the customary bow and greetings to the Lord and Lady of the house before inquiring after Lady Grace.

"Colonel Fitzwilliam how pleasant it is to see you again. I am afraid Grace is indisposed," replied Lady MacKenna. It was everything she could do to mask her shocked expression at Colonel Fitzwilliam's inquiry.

Colonel Fitzwilliam furrowed his brow. Had she perhaps fallen ill after being caught in the rain with him the evening before? "Ah, well I had hoped to speak to her. She is not ill is she?"

"Colonel Fitzwilliam surely you have other more engaging pursuits than talking to women like Grace." This was the response of Lord MacKenna, who despite having a great affection for his daughter some time ago, found that once she had brought shame to the family name with her impropriety, that she deserved nothing but reproach. It would not do to encourage a man of Colonel Fitzwilliam's standing to pursue any further contact with his daughter.

"Perhaps I should call on Lady Grace at a later time?" suggested Colonel Fitzwilliam.

"No, Colonel," laughed Lady MacKenna, "She will be indisposed for some time."

"I see." Colonel Fitzwilliam had hoped to gain the forgiveness of Lady Grace, but it would appear that he was to be thwarted. It was unclear, however, what sort of objections their seemed to be toward him speaking to Lady Grace.

Having watched the play of emotions dance their way across Colonel Fitzwilliam's features, Lord MacKenna felt the need to issue a warning. "A word of advice Colonel, as the son of an Earl you had best find a woman untouched by scandal and questions of virtue. It is your duty. Besides," exclaimed Lord MacKenna jovially, "you are a war hero and you can certainty do better than Grace."

Colonel Fitzwilliam started. "I beg your pardon, Sir. I had best take my leave." He bowed. "Good day."

As Colonel Fitzwilliam exited the sitting room he found himself offended on behalf of Lady Grace. While he knew nothing of the circumstances it appeared to him that many were quick to judge her and quick to imply that she was somehow improper. It unsettled him greatly as Colonel Fitzwilliam always prided himself on not judging before he had the opportunity to form an opinion for himself.

Grace made her way that morning across the moors. Her home felt like a prison to her as her parents condemned her for her actions the evening before and it was there among the wilds that she felt most free. It was upon her slow promenade back to the house that she came across a beautiful stallion grazing the field near the estate she called home.

"Well you are a handsome boy indeed," murmured Lady Grace. She approached the horse and began to stroke his nose and smiled as he playfully nuzzled her. It occurred to her that she had the pleasure of having met this horse before, but she could not recollect where. Grace found herself calmed by the animal as she continued to stoke him and he continued to nuzzle her face.

"You are lucky to be a horse," she murmured to it. "You do not have to worry about society judging you at every turn. You are practically free to do as you please."

It was just some feet away that Colonel Fitzwilliam stood and observed Lady Grace make love to Thor. She made quite a picture. Her flaming locks were haphazardly pinned up and the strands which dared escape were wildly failing about in the wind and stood in stark contrast to the dark flesh of Thor. She stood out against the sparkling green landscape; like a beacon in the fog. Here among the wilds of the English landscape, standing with his horse, she looked at home.

Colonel Fitzwilliam quietly approached Lady Grace, but could not contain a laugh as Thor took a daring nip at a strand of Lady Grace's hair. It was the warm crackle of his laugh which caused Lady Grace to turn around and lock eyes with him. It was at that moment that she realized where she had seen this horse before.

"I see you have met Thor," said Richard. He reached out and gave Thor an affectionate pat. "I told you if you were lucky you would meet a pretty lady."

Grace blushed, but rewarded him with a smile. "It would appear so. He is a fine horse Colonel Fitzwilliam."

Richard unconsciously stepped closer to Lady Grace as if drawing strength from her before treading down the difficult path of apology. "I come with a difficult task today I am afraid, Lady Grace."

She gave the Colonel a teasing smile. "Is that so Colonel?"

"Yes it is so."

"Then pray tell Colonel, I dare say you had better say it before we stray from our course to something far more pleasing."

"I wanted to apologize again for harming you," he said while indicating to the bruises on her neck.

"Oh," said Lady Grace while bringing her hand to her neck. She shrugged. "They hardly show Colonel."

"Yes, but I frightened you and that is unforgivable."

"Colonel you are too hard on yourself. I am fine. Consider yourself forgiven."

Richard flexed his hand in an attempt to prevent himself from brushing an errant strand of hair away from her face. "You are extremely generous Lady Grace."

A silence composed itself between Lady Grace and Colonel Fitzwilliam for some time. The only interaction between the two was the quick glances which darted back and forth between them. Colonel Fitzwilliam was unsure of how to proceed, but Lady Grace was uneasy for the words that she was working up the courage to utter.

"I….I cannot be seen with you anymore Colonel Fitzwilliam. I am sorry." Lady Grace turned towards the house in an effort to quickly distance herself from the Colonel, but she was restrained by a firm grip on her arm. Her eyes met the Colonel's and she found herself paralyzed where she stood.

Chapter 4: Departures

Posted on 2011-01-08

Colonel Fitzwilliam tried best to restrain his emotions, but he found it difficult while in close proximity to Lady Grace. Despite not yet being able to recognize that it would be Lady Grace who would bring calmness to the raging torrent of his mind, he did know that he was not prepared to release her from their acquaintance.

"Why can you not be seen with me anymore?" whispered Colonel Fitzwilliam. He kept his hold upon her arm in an effort to retain control of the situation and to see into the window of her mind as he held her gaze.

Grace fidgeted in an attempt to get away from the Colonel. His close proximity and his touch was creating havoc with her emotions. She glanced at the Colonel before replying, "I am not good enough for a man like you Colonel. That is why I cannot be seen with you anymore. I'm sorry."

Colonel Fitzwilliam released his hold and stepped away as if he had been burned. "And is this all the explanation I am to receive?"

Grace was distressed with what she found herself doing. "I am not good enough for you. What more would you require?"

"I am an intelligent man Lady Grace, and I would appreciate it if you would not insult me. You have given me a very vague answer, but not an explanation."

"You are a stubborn fool Colonel. Let me go, for no good can come of this."

"I think it is for me to decide what is good and what is not. Answer me Lady Grace."

"I have already explained it to you Colonel…."

"You have explained nothing" cried Richard angrily. "Why must you be so difficult?"

"And why must you always insist on having your way? Things do not always work out how you want Colonel. This is not the battlefield. This is life and it's complicated."

"Maybe then it is not you, who is not good enough for me, maybe it is I who is not good enough for you."

"No, I never said that." It was all Grace could do to hold back her tears. Colonel Fitzwilliam was probably the kindest man she had ever known and it pained her to treat him so, but what choice did she have?

"You didn't have to," Richard muttered angrily. Richard turned back to glance at Grace and frowned. "I can't seem to figure you out Lady Grace." Grabbing the reins he threw himself upon Thor and spurred him to a gallop, leaving Grace behind. Had he bothered to glance back he would have seen the pain etched on her face and the tears burst forth, but it would appear happiness was not on their side today.

Grace threw up her hands and whimpered. "Well drat," she sobbed.

Grace knew she did not have much right to cry because all of this was her own fault. However, her emotions could not be controlled; she knew she was in a difficult position. As an unmarried woman with no marriage prospects and more importantly, with the very real threat of her parents throwing her out, she had nowhere to go. She felt that her hand had been forced; she must push Colonel Fitzwilliam away to avoid the threat of destitution. While she realized it had to be done it did not make the outcome any easier to accept. It had been her inexperience before which led her down the thorny path, where shadows sheltered indiscriminate secrets that only revealed themselves on a whim; which now had created a furry of bedlam in her life. It now became a question of how long would she be doomed to atone for her sins?

"Bloody Hell," Richard snarled in determination as he turned Thor around. He would not retreat and allow Lady Grace to do this.

He dismounted at the edge of the clearing and approached Lady Grace; her back was to him and he was unsure if she heard his approach. Richard observed the shaking of her shoulders and what sounded liked choked sobs. Dear G-d was she crying? "Lady Grace I really must protest," he exclaimed. "Are you crying?" he asked in veiled astonishment.

Grace stiffened at the sound of the Colonel's voice. 'What was he doing back here?' she thought angrily as she tried to calm her tears. "No, I'm not crying."

However, it looked as if Thor had other ideas as he trotted over to her and proceeded to nuzzle her. Grace laughed softly and buried her face in the horse's neck, much to the delight of Thor. Thor made a great display to his master, ensuring that it was understood he approved of the lady very much.

Richard looked askance at Thor. The traitorous horse seemed more concerned with a stranger he had just met, rather than with the state of his master. He would have to have a talk with Thor later, but at the moment he had more pressing issues. "Lady Grace you are distressed. Please, take my handkerchief." Richard whispered.

He held the handkerchief over her shoulder and it hung suspended between them for some moments in silence, the only sound was from the soft wind which teasingly played with the dangling handkerchief and Grace's attempts to stifle her tears. It was a moment which flirted with the resolve of both; each more determined to turn the result to their own desires, or, as the case was for Grace, to the desires of others. What could have been a romantic moment for our heroine and our hero was instead a moment where resistance was met, and blunders where to be made; on that ever tangled road to esteemed affection and, more importantly, love.

"I'm not crying. I never cry." Grace knew it was a lie and she suspected Colonel Fitzwilliam knew it too, but she was not about to admit that she was crying.

Richard smiled slightly. "Please, Lady Grace."

Grace sniffled and took Colonel Fitzwilliam's offered handkerchief. "Thank you," said Grace turning around stiffly. She dabbed her eyes quickly which were red from crying and it was all Grace could do to stand there and try to retain some dignity knowing she looked anything but dignified. She looked anywhere but at Colonel Fitzwilliam.

Richard took in her distressed appearance and frowned. "I have something I would like to ask you."

Grace frowned, but nodded in acquiesce. With a confidence she did not feel she met Colonel Fitzwilliam's penetrating gaze.

"Why do they shun you?" he asked.

Grace was surprised at the question. "Because society believes me to be compromised, they consider it truth," Grace replied in bewilderment.

"What is the truth?" Richard registered the look of surprise on her face at his question. If her reaction was any indication it would seem that no one had bothered to seek the truth. However, that should not have surprised him, as society was usually more concerned with gossip than with truth.

"My virtue remains Colonel," Grace muttered angrily. "As to my reputation, well, society has decided based on speculation and innuendo. Are you now satisfied that you cannot be seen with me if you desire to maintain your reputation?"

"No, I find myself extremely displeased."

"But, you asked for the truth." Grace was bewildered at the apparent censure of the Colonel.

"I am displeased that you presume to know my nature. The Fitzwilliam's are not given to following the dictates of society. We tend to judge for ourselves."

"But I am considered ruined; any association with me will ruin you too if you continue this madness."

Richard shrugged. "I find you are someone I would very much like to know, and I find myself not interested in the pronouncements and censures of society."

"You are either a very courageous man Colonel or an utter fool." Grace's eye burned in guarded defiance as if inside she was teetering on the brink of two very different outcomes.

Holding her gaze with equal determination and calm resolve Richard replied. "I saw much in war Lady Grace. I believe society's reproach cannot compare."

"Perhaps not Colonel, but I still cannot be seen with you. Besides," she muttered bitterly, "I would like a roof over my head and that cannot be if we continue our acquaintance." Grace cast a worried glance in the direction of her parent's home. This look was not missed by Colonel Fitzwilliam and his quick military senses. "Please, Colonel Fitzwilliam. Go!"

Richard nodded stiffly and took a step closer to Grace. "We all have things we would like to forget Lady Grace. Someday you will have to confront your demons. I bid you good day." Before departing he took Lady Grace's hand in his own; he had only meant to bow over her hand, but found he couldn't resist raising it to his lips and holding it there a mere second longer than propriety allowed.

Grace watched Colonel Fitzwilliam ride away atop Thor as she gingerly touched the hand that Colonel Fitzwilliam had just brought to his lips. It still tingled with unfamiliar warmth. Given recent events, she did not associate the coldness spreading through her slowly with the lost presence of a certain Colonel, but instead with the abrupt change in weather. She gave a start at a clap of thunder and the sudden downpour which had come on unexpectedly as she ran towards the house.

Lord Vincent watched his brother pace back in forth in an agitated manner. He pondered the stark direction their lives had taken since childhood. As young boys he and Richard had been thick as thieves. They had presented themselves as two sides of the same coin.

He remembered one particular incident when he and Richard had played a game of pirates. He had been about seven and Richard had been perhaps five. They had both constructed wooden swords and had commandeered a large tree as a makeshift pirate ship. In an effort of imitation that only young boys could achieve, they proceeded in a 'bloody' battle for who was to win the fair maiden, which was actually just a broom they had pillaged from one of the housemaids.

Lord Vincent smiled to himself and thought how much simpler times had been when they were younger. Now, it seemed with differing responsibilities, their priorities had shifted and they had drifted apart. Richard was still close to their cousin Fitzwilliam Darcy. Perhaps, it was the responsibility of joint guardianship of Georgiana which allowed them to continue the bond that had been formed in childhood.

Despite the distance brought on by adult responsibilities, it was a never wavering truth that he loved his brother; if it was in his power, he would do whatever was required to see his brother content in life. He noted that Richard's agitation had increased since his return from France. Lord Vincent would be a fool not to note the change in his brother upon his return, but even more disturbing than the sounds the emanated from Richard's room at night, it was clear that something had recently occurred to increase Richard's already agitated state.

"If you are not careful Richard you will surely wear a hole in the floor with your pacing and I don't foresee mother being particularly pleased with you should that occur," remarked Lord Vincent dryly.

Richard halted and turned to look at his brother. It took a moment before the meaning dawned upon Richard and he smiled sheepishly. "You are right Vincent, Mother would be quite cross with me if I put an unnecessary hole in her floor."

"Perhaps this will calm you," Vincent handed a glass of brandy to his younger brother; Richard gratefully took the offered medicinal cure for nerves and other ailments.

Richard sat down and slowly sipped the brandy from the glass. "Are you worried about me as well Vincent?"

Vincent looked as his brother with some skepticism. Surely he knew or at least sensed that the family knew of some trouble with him. "You're my younger brother. It's my job to worry about you."

"I know you do. It's an annoying habit you seem to have." Richard remarked dryly. "But, you are a little late in your concern Vincent." Richard took another sip of brandy before continuing. "Father has already cornered me, after a regrettable night of drunkenness I might add, and voiced his and mother's concern for my mental state."

Vincent playfully wacked Richard over the head in annoyance and took another sip of his brandy. "You're as obnoxious as ever Richard. I really wish you would contain your sad attempts at humor."
Richard grinned wolfishly at his older brother. "But I would not be myself if I wasn't making the attempt."

Despite himself Vincent smiled. "You are hardly humorous most of the time."

"That my dear brother is merely a matter of opinion. I know there are plenty who find me amusing." Richard leaned back into the comfort of the sofa and shook his empty glass to indicate to Vincent that he would sincerely like another brandy.

"Yes but if you bothered to ask their real opinion they would tell you otherwise. " Vincent smiled as he finished his teasing and proceeded to refill Richard's glass.

"Vincent you are positively tiresome." Richard grinned before silence drifted into the room, the only sound was emanating from the crackling of the fire in the hearth. "What ails you Richard?" asked Vincent suddenly.

Richard shrugged. "I have much on my mind. It is of no lasting consequence."

Vincent leaned forward and paused to look at his brother before asking the question he never before dared to ask. "You would prefer to share your confidences with Darcy then?"

Richard had the grace to blush. "Vincent it is not like that." Richard could tell from the tone of his voice Vincent clearly believed otherwise.

Vincent took a long gulp of brandy which burned its way down his throat in apparent protest, before he responded. "No….No Richard I understand perfectly. I know how close you and Darcy are and I would be a fool to think that you would want to confide in me."

"Vincent this is nonsense. Yes, it is true that I prefer Darcy as a confidant and I am sorry if that pains you, but there are certain things I would prefer not to burden you with. Besides, you made it perfectly clear what you thought of my profession some years ago." Richard closed his eyes for as soon as the words had left his mouth he knew them to have been the wrong words to utter.

Vincent's face clearly bespoke the underlying truth, but hearing the words out loud gave more impact to the blow. Vincent had always known that Richard preferred discussing things with Darcy, but he hadn't realized how far apart he and his brother had come until this moment. Vincent drained the rest of his brandy and set the glass down on the sideboard. "I am sorry that we are no longer close enough that you feel ill at ease sharing your troubles with me."

Richard stood and watched Vincent move toward the door and felt remorse for how he had so tactlessly allowed his brother to continue to think that he preferred Darcy's companionship over his. "Vincent, I saw many things in France and I don't relish letting you live with me in my own personal hell. Besides, if it makes you feel better I do not even burden Darcy with what I have seen." He emphasized his words by unconsciously gripping his brandy glass hard until it crippled under the increasing pressure.
The sound of shattering glass behind him and the strong scent of alcohol permeated Vincent's nose and roused him from his numbness. He turned to face Richard who was shaking and had broken out in a cold sweat.

"You can know nothing…." Richard sighed and continued quietly "nothing of what I have seen. You can understand nothing, nor would I wish you to. This is my hell Vincent. Not yours, not Father's, and not Darcy's?"

Richard glanced down at his now bleeding hand and the shattered glass glistening in a puddle of alcohol on the floor. It was with a listless fascination that had his eyes slowly following a drop of blood as it slid down his finger before calmly descending down into the puddle of alcohol, causing it to ripple and tinge the already amber liquid a darker shade. He hadn't meant to shatter the glass; however in an effort to keep the visions at bay he had overestimated his strength in retaining them.

"Richard! You're bleeding." Vincent cried softly while quickly approaching him.

"It would appear to be the case. I should clean this up." exclaimed Richard. "Besides," he remarked with a smile, "Mother would be beside herself if she saw what I have done to her floor. Blood is difficult to get out you know."

"I do believe she would," Vincent replied smiling.

For the first time Vincent comprehended the damage that had been done by war. The ever-growing distance between the brothers had been caused by Vincent's disapproval of Richard's military profession. Now, Vincent saw that his disapproval had cost his brother some much needed support. It was damage that would be difficult to undo. Vincent stood and slowly approached Richard offering him his handkerchief; after watching his younger brother wrap his hand, Vincent hugged him tightly, knowing this one gesture was the first step toward helping his brother heal.

Richard clung to his brother for a moment before pulling away. "I should be going."

"Ah, so are the shades of Pemberley to be gifted with your presence for a time?"

Richard gave an awkward smile to Vincent. "I believe for a time I will visit with Darcy."

Vincent nodded before calling for a servant to clean up the mess on the floor. When he turned around Richard was gone from the room, having silently departed without attracting attention. Vincent smiled ruefully; Richard had always been good at departing without making a sound.

Richard stopped in the foyer for a moment where he resumed looking at the rain pelting the darkened window; he knew if he was ever to see peace again he needed to seek the solace of Pemberley. This day had included both a confrontation with his brother and the loss of Lady Grace; the enticement of waking up in the peace of Darcy's home was enough to think he would prefer to ride Thor in the rain to Pemberley rather than face another day of confrontations and concerned questions in his parents' home. It was an action that he would pay for dearly later.

The rain had poured all night, pelting Colonel Fitzwilliam as he rode through the countryside atop Thor; which did not perturb Richard at all. By the time he had reached Pemberley he was soaked to the bone by miles of torrential rain; arriving at Pemberley sometime near dawn, it had taken what little strength he had left to rouse the household to his presence, before he collapsed in the foyer and was overcome by a raging fever; creating a new uproar at Pemberley ---the call for a doctor. It was rare that a man of Colonel Fitzwilliam's experience and aptitude was overcome with a raging fever, but even great men need a moments rest, in fact it was possibly the only way to force this particular man to retreat and rest. It would seem that providence had taken matters into its own hands, as it is often want to do; and so providence had forced Richard to retreat for a time.

Fitzwilliam Darcy took in his cousin's appearance as the doctor examined him, and Darcy decided that he would get to the bottom of this uncharacteristically reckless behavior on Richard's part. He looked up sharply at the sound of a whisper from his cousin. It was one word, whispered with anguish --- "Grace."

Chapter 5: Carefully Crafted Illusions

Posted on 2011-01-25

It had quickly become known throughout Newcastle that there was a redcoat who had a fixation for the color red. It was not with the red of his uniform, no, it was a particular shade of hair that had George Wickham very particular about the strumpet he would select for the evening. It had been noted by those around Newcastle that George Wickham had the behavior of an obsessed man. If a redhead could not be had, and in truth there were not many to be had in Newcastle, then he was known to fly into a rage causing damage to tables and chairs in the establishment, perhaps even breaking a few glasses, before he settled down with a bottle of scotch and drank late into the night, usually becoming quite foxed.

Tonight it would seem that George Wickham had found a redhead to his liking. It seemed that this particular strumpet had become a fixation for him; a fixation he began to return to time and time again.

George Wickham was not fully conscious of the pleasures of the flesh he was partaking in. All he knew was that she possessed the correct shade of red hair and the only thing he knew for sure was that he would not remember her name in the morning. Even in his turmoil Wickham was able to spew forth charming lies to create a fantasy of his own making.

"You're beautiful" he whispered before proceeding along his path of nightly debauchery.

It was a hazy combination of alcohol and obsessive need to have what he shouldn't which drew him night after night to the darkened rooms above the clubs that he frequented; with one particular redhead that satisfied his fixation. The impairment made his actions almost unconscious and when he left before morning's light and wandered the streets of Newcastle on his way home, he had a lot of time to spend in the recesses of his mind. He had much time to consider what exactly it was that he was supposed to have done and how he wanted to fix it.

A small part of him suppressed the pang of regret at his actions when he would catch Lydia looking at him with a mixture of hurt and confusion upon his return to the house. For you see, since their marriage Wickham had not shared a bed with his wife. To one as young and silly as Lydia, who believed the romance would continue upon her marriage, she was unaccustomed to the realities which resulted when forced marriage was involved. Forced marriages were not usually events to create happiness on the sides of both the groom and bride, although sometimes it did occur, but it was rare.

If only Lydia had known the truth behind her husband's actions, perhaps she would have been more sympathetic, but that was not likely to be the case. No, Wickham himself did not even know what his subconscious was driving him to; all he knew was that he missed the color red and he wanted it back, except now he had the hindrance of a wife. It would be sometime before the truth came to Wickham, but when it did it would cause a heavy blow, for when one finally confronts the truth it is never easy to accept.

The nights Wickham spent with red headed strumpets had not only garnered the attention of Newcastle, but the men in his fellow regiment and as a result much gossip circulated around the regiment and Newcastle about the meticulous and strange ways of one George Wickham. Gossip has a way of spreading and reaching the ears of one's far, far away and while it would be some months before that gossip reached the ears of certain individuals it was certain to cause pain to all.

Grace had come to the library to seek refuge from another society ball. She was in the process of slowly browsing a shelf of books when her silent refuge was interrupted by the sounds of an amorous couple entering the library, causing her to remain frozen in the shadows, hoping that her presence would go unnoticed. This hope seemed likely as the couple was not aware of their surroundings, being rather distracted with their current activities.

It was during that one moment of affection, glimpsed by a passing aristocrat, which set his tongue wagging and resulted in the rapid advance of the gossip that Lady Grace had been seen in a compromising position. It was the catalyst which set off what was to become a living, breathing nightmare for Grace.

Grace awoke abruptly from a dream the morning following her painful dismissal of Colonel Fitzwilliam, to the dreary, wet landscape of Matlock. While the rain had ceased there was still a feeling of quiet desolation as she looked out at the expansive landscape which continued for miles creating an emotional onslaught as she felt more alone than ever before. Her eyes were swollen from a night of uncensored tears and in the course of the night they had lost the lively sparkly that had slowly begun to creep back into their shimmering depths; in fact she unconsciously clung to the token which Colonel Fitzwilliam had forgotten to retrieve before his departure, absentmindedly tracing the initials R.A .F. in the corner of the soft fabric while the scent of cloves and allspice which still clung to it tantalized her nose.

Not even the entrance of the maid with a tray of hot morning tea was enough to rouse her from her trance. As the door softly closed, signaling the departure of the maid, Grace shifted only enough to curl up into a ball and squeeze her eyes shut before she pulled the covers back over her head, enveloping herself in darkness, and rolling over in the hopes she would not be left alone with her thoughts. George Wickham was ever present there as she remembered the last time she had seen him before he had departed. He had kissed her goodbye, just as Colonel Fitzwilliam had and it created a painful ache within her heart. Now he was gone too and she was again left behind; although Colonel Fitzwilliam's departure had been partly of her own making.

However, she also realized that she had to accept the life she had been given, which meant someday soon she would need to cease the wallowing and start acting as though she was alright. The one thing she had learned from society was even if you didn't feel happy it was best to create a carefully crafted illusion that you were. It was with a detached acceptance that she decided she would present a calm and cool exterior to her parents and the rest of society. She would accept the plans already decided for her with grace and composure even though she would feel dead inside, she would go through life detached, while in the still of the night she would be free to release her emotions. She could already feel herself suffocating.

The only comfort at this moment was the scent of cloves and allspice emanating from Colonel Fitzwilliam's handkerchief. She choked back a sob as she thought of how kind he had been and how she had looked forward to their sparring matches. He had begun to a breathe a little life back into her that she had thought left with Mr. Wickham and now the little bit of life had been snuffed with the Colonel's departure. She once again felt dead.

Captain Quinn MacKenna had just arrived home and he entered the breakfast room with much flourish, a production of showmanship which could only be achieved by one in uniform and by one who wished to vex his parents. His naval uniform was polished and pressed to pristine condition and his boots were polished so well that one could see their reflection in them. The Captain quickly made his way to the side board where he proceeded to pile his plate high, again to vex his parents who were by this time delivering quite hardened glares at his back, and then he poured himself a cup of steaming hot tea before he swiveled around, smiled wolfishly at his parents, set his tea and plate of food on the table before he kicked back his coat tails and sat down with additional flourish. If there was anything Captain MacKenna did well it was make an entrance.

A moment of silence passed as Quinn glanced back and forth between his mother and father and waited for the not-too-anticipated outburst that was sure to surge forth like a tempest sea. Quinn leaned back in his chair, picked up his tea and awaited the first signs of discontent.

"Really Quinn" cried his mother in exasperation "must you insist on making these obnoxious displays when you come home. Please try to conduct yourself with more propriety."

Quinn tried not to roll his eyes. The unmistakable sound of his father clearing his throat brought Quinn's eyes to the other end of the table; in fact his parents had sat at opposite ends of the table for as long as he could remember.

"When do you plan on giving up this ridiculous notion of making the Navy a profession? You are my heir and I would prefer you alive to take my place." Lord MacKenna had been none too pleased with his son's defiance some years ago and abhorred the idea that any son of his should work for a living. It had never occurred to him that perhaps his son wanted to leave the confines of his home to discover the freedom afforded by a working profession.

"The navy is a respectable profession," Quinn replied, giving his father an icy glare. He noted his sister, who he knew preferred to rise early rather than to remain idle in bed, was not present and it was almost noon. "Where is Grace?"

The moment he mentioned his sister and the sudden discomposure of his parents caused an icy chill to snake its way up his spine. "Has something happened to Grace?" he asked in barely contained restraint.

Lady MacKenna sighed. "An incident occurred while you were out at sea."

"Which would not have happened had you been here like a proper heir!" interjected Lord MacKenna bitterly.

Quinn declined to respond to his father's less than discreet insult and instead focused on his mother who seemed to be more forgiving at the moment.

"Your sister was compromised. She has ruined this family. If she had just married George Wickham then perhaps this could have all been avoided, but now society is talking and all because your sister is loose with her morals," Lady Mackenna explained.

Quinn remained silent for some time. While he had not had much interaction with Wickham and while he had not seen anything to confirm or deny any overt action on either of their parts, he thought he had detected some partiality on both sides. However, he knew his sister well enough to know that she would not have acted in a manner which would have disgraced her virtue. That his parents were so quick to judge made anger well up within him and it took all the strength he possessed to keep it at bay. "Did you bother to ask her about the event which led to her allegedly being compromised?" he replied evenly.

"We did not need to inquire when we know the reports to be true." Lord Mackenna spoke with such conviction that he wanted there to be no argument to the contrary.

Understanding dawned upon Quinn like the quick spark of a flame on dry kindling. "You mean you shunned Grace based on the word of gossips and did not bother to ask for her side of the story."

Lady MacKenna pursed her lips is disapproval and glared at her son. She felt the annoyance radiate off her husband at the other end of the table as he barked a reply to their son. "She brought this on herself."

"I'm afraid I do not understand your meaning," Quinn bit back with equal vigor.

"It means that she has disgraced herself and she must suffer the consequences." Lord MacKenna stood up abruptly and faced his son. "She will marry a man foolish enough to take her as soon as I can arrange it."

"Does Grace know of this?"

"It is of no concern to her. She will do as she is told" Lord MacKenna replied vehemently. "I am her father and it is my right."

Quinn slammed his hands on the table as he stood with violent abandon and glared at his father. "Grace should have a say in her own life. Why would you condemn her to a life of misery? Are you both that cold?" He glanced back and forth between his mother, whom was still seated at the end of the table calmly eating her toast, and his father who was standing stonily with his arms crossed glaring at him.

Lord MacKenna took a moment to compose himself before calmly taking a seat. He raised the tea cup to his lips before placing it down in its saucer and then he spoke with deadly calm to his son--"She has no right to contradict me. She will marry whomever I choose and will do so in silence. She has made a mockery of this family with her shameful conduct and she will do right by this family by doing what I tell her without argument." At the conclusion of his speech Lord MacKenna returned to his breakfast as if nothing out of the ordinary had occurred.

Quinn took a moment to recover before he swiftly excited the room in search of his sister. How miserable she must have been without him here to protect her. To be left with a tyrant of a father and an unfeeling mother must have been detrimental to his sister's wild and adventurous spirit which his parents had never really understood. It was insupportable what they sought to do to his sister as he understood nothing but love and respect for her chosen partner in life could induce her into true happiness. If their father's plan was successful Quinn feared seeing his sister married off, knowing what that would do to her spirit.

Ascending the stairs Quinn rapidly advanced down the long expanse of the hall and tried to calm his boiling anger as he approached his sister's chambers. It would do her no good to see him upset. He landed a quick succession of knocks on her door, but was greeted with only silence. In one swift movement Quinn opened the door to see a large, unmoving lump, which could only be his sister in the bed.

"I love what you have done with the place" Quinn said sarcastically as he entered his sister's room. "These dead roses give such a festive feel" he said while fingering a dried-up rose before he turned toward the lump that was his sister. "Are you planning a funeral?" His attempt at humor was greeted with silence as his sister refused to answer him. "Grace Brigid MacKenna come out from under those covers or I'll make you come out."

An unladylike grunt of defiance came from underneath the covers which caused Quinn to smile. "Grace would you please come out from under there?"

Grace threw the covers back, sat up and glared at him in mock annoyance. It was so good to see her brother whose dark hair stood in contrast with his otherwise angelic appearance and he was so dashing in his naval uniform. She heaved a great sigh of relief, but continued to unconsciously clutch the forgotten handkerchief; a movement which did not escape Quinn's notice, nor did the initials R.A.F. escape his keen eyesight.

"Would you mind taking a walk with me?"Quinn smiled at his sister, hiding his concern for her appearance and her health very well.

Grace smiled slightly. "I'd like that."

"Good," Quinn nodded. "I'll wait for you in the foyer."

Once outside, brother and sister walked in silence for some time. The air was crisp and the fog hung low, creating the feeling that they were the only two in the world who were out wandering through the moors. Each lost in their own thoughts; Grace was pondering the stark turn her life had taken. Quinn was contemplating how much his little sister had changed from the vibrant youthful woman to the near shadow he saw before him. It disturbed him greatly and as he led his sister to the quiet seclusion of a clearing in the woods, where they were sure to not be disturbed, he was determined to know the whole truth.

As they entered the clearing Grace detached herself from her brother's arm and situated herself upon a fallen log. Her eyes and cheeks where brightened by the exercise. Picking up a stick she began to absentmindedly draw pictures in the dirt all-the-while awaiting her brother's inquires. It had become a ritual among them when he would return home for a time; they took a walk far from the house and they talked for hours, just to catch up on the months they had missed of each other's lives. She had come to look forward to these talks, but today she dreaded it. She was in no mood to talk.

Meanwhile, Quinn took the time to study his sister. The pallor of her skin was paler than was normal even for her Irish complexion; in fact her red hair only accentuated her ghostly appearance. She had lost weight since the last time he had seen her as her dress, he noticed, hung much looser than it should and her cheeks were more pronounced than before. She was unwell and it unsettled him that he was the only one who cared enough to notice, as it seemed their parents were more concerned with saving their reputation than the health of their daughter. "Grace," he began softly "Mother and father tell me that something happened while I was away."

Grace glanced at her brother, having dreaded this moment. Her lip quivered but she held back her tears with a determination which would have impressed our dear Colonel Fitzwilliam. "What of it?"

"What really happened Grace?" he asked as he walked over to the log she was perched upon and sat down beside her.

A stab of pain shot through her. "Colonel Fitzwilliam is the only other person who has ever asked me that."

She had spoken so softly that Quinn almost didn't hear her. His brow shot up. "Colonel Fitzwilliam?"

"Yes." she replied. She continued to make designs in the dirt keeping her eyes down and not meeting his eyes. "Colonel Fitzwilliam is the younger son of Lord and Lady Matlock. He just returned from France. He's retired from the Army now I believe."

An Army man thought Quinn. "The Army, Grace?"

Grace smiled a sly smile suddenly and finally looked at her brother. "I know how that displeases you Quinn, but the Navy is not the only place one finds honorable men."

Quinn pinned his sister with a mock glare. "You are not humorous at all my dear sister." Grace rewarded him with one of her musical laughs. This was the Grace he knew well and loved.

Grace stood abruptly and began to pace, ringing her hands in silent distress before coming to a sudden stop some feet from her brother. "George Wickham. I thought he loved me, but it was all a lie."

Quinn now stood as well. "What happened?"

Grace looked him squarely in the eye with a strength she wasn't quite sure she felt. "He decided to chase a bit o' muslin. I found out at one of those dreadful society balls. My silent library refuge became tainted by the truth." Grace stopped a moment to take a deep breath. She could do this. "He knew it was I who saw and followed me. We had words and then he kissed me."

"He what!" Quinn exploded.

"It was on the forehead. I swear nothing else occurred. You must believe me Quinn," she exclaimed. She was on the edge of begging for him to believe her when she found herself engulfed in her brother arms. She clung to him as the tears burst forth like the opening of a dam. "I'm so sorry Quinn. I've ruined the whole family."

"No," he whispered fiercely in her ear. "You have nothing to be sorry for Grace. It is Mr. Wickham who has much to answer for."

Grace pulled herself together some moments later, pulling away from her brother's embrace and dried her eyes. She sniffed for some moments more before she felt composed enough to take her brother's arm so that they could continue their walk; however she was halted by her brother's refusal to move. She turned and looked at him.

"Even on a good day," Quinn murmured "Wickham wasn't good enough for you."

Grace gave her brother a sad smile. "Perhaps you're right, but a part of me still loves him even though I know I should not."

Quinn placed her hand in the crook of his arm and led her down a winding path in the woods, not at all pleased with the words of affection she had uttered for Mr. Wickham. A man like Mr. Wickham was undeserving of a woman such as his sister. "Do you know of father's plans for you future?"
Grace stiffened, a change which did not go unnoticed by Quinn. "I am aware of his plans."

"You cannot be pleased with father's intentions for you." This seeming docility in Grace's demeanor was unsettling to Quinn who was used to her vivacious and fiery spirit.

"Of course I'm not pleased Quinn, but what would you have me do? I don't get the luxury of being one of your sex. I am a woman which means I have no say in the decisions in my life."

"Grace…" Quinn was not pleased at all with how calm she seemed to be.

"Quinn, be realistic. You're a man with progressive thought, but there are few who share your views. My lot in life is to follow the path laid out for me by my father. It's the way things are."

"I dislike seeing you so miserable."

Grace smiled softly at her brother. "Were I a man then I to would have fled to the sea for the freedom it brings."

Quinn smiled sadly. "You deserve so much better than this life of misery father has planned for you Grace."

Grace smiled wryly. "Then let us hope that some dashing gentleman comes along atop his noble steed to rescue me."

Quinn lifted his brow in amusement at his sister's poor attempt at humor. "Noble steed? Come now Grace even I did not take you for a reader of those Radcliffe novels."

"I've always been fascinated by a man's choice of horse;" She said thoughtfully. "A man's horse is a strong reflection of his master's character. What do you think brother dear?"

"I think I want my sister back." Quinn remarked.

Chapter 6: Where feelings awaken and mischief is made

Posted on 2011-02-13

Colonel Fitzwilliam was in and out of consciousnesses as fever ravaged his body. Between bouts of consciousness and feverish delirium Richard mumbled mostly incoherent nothings and only a small portion of what he actually mumbled was understood by Darcy. What Darcy was able to decipher was that a woman was assuredly involved in some fashion with his cousin's state. This Grace was obviously of some importance to his cousin which was of great interest to Darcy, as he had been waiting for a time when he would be able to reciprocate some of the amusement Richard had garnered from his predicament with Elizabeth.

It had become such a habit for Darcy to sit with Richard, that Elizabeth had to force him out of the Colonels sickroom; she pointed out that an experienced nurse was on duty and under her watchful eye Richard would want for nothing and should anything change they would be notified at once. While Darcy would have preferred to keep his constant vigil over his cousin's sick bed he also could not disagree with his intelligent Elizabeth's assessment.

It continued in much the same manner for a week before the fever broke; Richard mumbled incoherent nothings. Darcy continued to worry about what might have brought his cousin to this illness. What had been the catalyst? It came with much relief towards the end of the week when Richard finally opened his eyes. Blasted fool thought Darcy as he walked briskly down the hall to his cousin's room.

Upon opening his eyes Richard was greeted by the worried gaze of his cousin Fitzwilliam groaned, as he had just awoken and was still somewhat disoriented.

"Hello Cousin," said Darcy "you awaken and if you don't mind me saying so you look like hell."

Richard smiled wearily at his cousin. He felt like hell. His mouth was dry, he felt hot and his body ached; particularly an injury he had sustained from a bullet to his left thigh during the war. It acted up from time to time and it seemed to have decided to do so now. Ouch! Gritting his teeth in pain Richard allowed the nurse to help shift him into a sitting position. "Darcy" he rasped "If I could punch you I would."

Grinning Darcy took a seat in the chair beside the bed. Folding his arms across his chest Darcy studied Richard for a moment as if that one moment would reveal all his cousin's secrets. Darcy decided on a blunt approach since his cousin was a bit at his mercy having been laid up in bed for days with fever. "Who is Grace?"

Richard eyed Darcy carefully, feeling his head clearing and feeling more coherent than before. While Darcy was usually the stoic, proud and reserved one, Richard found himself in an impassioned emotional dance at being reminded of the flaming Irish beauty while in a most vulnerable state. Richard cursed silently as he too reflected Darcy's pose and folded his arms over his chest. Glaring at Darcy, much like an angered lion at having lost its prey, he pursed his lips and stared at his cousin. He had no intention of discussing the insufferable, yet intriguing, beautiful mess that was Lady Grace at the moment, especially when he had no idea what to fully make of her and the situation he now found himself in. He felt he needed further reflection and time to compose his emotions toward the lady before he shared his thoughts with Darcy.

It became a silent standoff between the two cousins, each refusing to retreat; each staring at each other with determined looks on their faces as each man could be as stubborn as the other. They were like two bucks whose horns were locked together in a battle to decide who would rule the forest. Richard shrugged in silent retreat before commenting that he was very tired and would like some rest. He tried to hold back a smile as he thought he had out maneuvered his cousin.

Darcy nodded but went for the coup de grace nonetheless as he reached the door. Turning, his hand resting on the doorknob, he said "You are going to have to talk to me sometime Richard because if you don't I'll make sure to write Aunt Catherine a nice, long letter about how much you would love to come to Rosings for a visit….a looooong visit." Darcy made sure to stress the last part before exiting the room.

NO! Anything but Aunt Catherine thought Richard in horror. Anything but the old bat whose only joy in life was making him miserable now that Darcy was married. Richard rolled over and groaned. Darcy did not play fair. He was incapacitated in this bed and he threatened him with Aunt Catherine. He should have remained at Matlock until the weather had cleared, but as he was not prone to following the dictates of Mother Nature he had figured that he could safely spurn her attempts to prevent his departure by impending threat. It seemed that she had shown him along with the good Lord. Richard realized, however, that he was far from tired. Still weak from his week-long illness, he realized he would be stuck in the bed for some time longer. Lady Grace invaded his thoughts like a tempest that try as he might he was unable to cast away. Lady Grace, her wit, her strength and her beauty were intent on invading his very being. Gah! He would have preferred the comfort of his battle torn mind because at least there he knew every move and consequence that was to occur. There were no surprises in his ghastly memories of bloodshed and death. He closed his eyes and the images of war came like a flash flood, a veritably painful onslaught, but Lady Grace it seemed was intent on inserting her infuriating presence into his mind whether he wanted her there or not.

If he was honest with himself he would admit that his pride at her sudden rejection had stung him, but he had devoted himself in his youth to his education and then to his military career. He had not much time to understand women and their emotional outbursts or lack thereof in Lady Grace's case. Lady Grace he found was like a bitter cold winter snowfall, that just when you thought there was enough sun to begin melting it a fresh snowfall fell again turning it ice cold once more. Where was her fire he wondered as he succumbed to his exhaustion and fell into a fitful sleep.

During the duration of the week that Quinn was home he watched his sister and he found that he became increasing displeased with what was unfolding in front of him. Their father had taken to discussing the future husband that was to be had for Grace and on the rare occasion that a question was directed at her she answered with a subservient "Yes, Father", "Of course Father" or "As you wish Father." Despite her outward subservient display Quinn could see the pain it caused her which was only confirmed to him one evening when he heard her soft cries behind her bedroom door.

It was clear to Quinn that his sister was slowly fading before his eyes. Being Irish his sister had always been pale, but her pallor had become almost ghost like, and she was entirely too thin. If his parents noticed her eating habits they did not say anything. While he believed much of his sister's illness had to do with her grieving heart it could not help, he believed, that their father planned to rid the family of what he called 'a stain on our reputation' by marrying her off as quickly as possible. If Grace was as ruined as his father believed then he bid him good luck finding a suitor for her.

Although the health of his sister and her subservient attitude unsettled him it was also clear to Quinn that parts of Grace's fiery Irish spirit refused to be stifled. There was still hope. Grace would disappear for hours from the house and becoming curious one day he followed her to a large meadow on the moors near the edge of the woodlands. When she arrived she would just sit for a time in the green grass and sometimes she would lay down and sleep, but not before clutching the mysterious handkerchief in her hand near her nose. What sort of hold did that ridiculous handkerchief have on his sister for she was always sniffing it like a curious cat that wasn't quite sure what it wanted.

It had become a habit for Grace to come to the spot she had first seen Colonel Fitzwilliam. The scent of cloves and allspice still lingering on the handkerchief seemed to bring her a mysterious comfort which allowed her some reprieve from her sleepless nights by allowing her enough comfort to steal away a few moments rest. They were the only moments of peace she seemed to be able to attain in the nightmare that had become her life. While she had steeled herself to her fate and had decided that she would not revolt openly against her Father's plans for her, she found it becoming increasingly difficult as her wild and willful nature became increasingly resistant to being censored.

One morning she snapped on one of her walks. She commandeered a large stick and letting out a scream as she proceeded to beat a poor defenseless tree with her club.

Whack!

Whack!

Whack!

With each blow she landed on the tree she screamed, even kicking the tree in-between whacks, and she continued on in this activity until she became so tired she could not but let her arms drop. Her breathing was heavy and she made an impressive sight, much like some battle worn warrior, with her hair wildly falling from her pins. Unbeknownst to her she was observed, Quinn had chuckled from atop the hill that gave him an accurate view of his sister's actions. Now, that was the Grace he knew.

The crowning moment for Quinn was one afternoon, while Lord and Lady MacKenna were out making calls; he caught his sister in the library perched regally atop Lord MacKenna's desk, casually playing with their father's snuff box. He raised an eyebrow as she met his eyes in a panic, but upon realizing it was him she relaxed. She looked at him innocently for a moment before she stood, picked up the box of snuff, walked towards the fireplace and shrugged before opening it and emptying its contents into the raging coals. There was a brief moment of sizzling and cracking as the snuff mingled with the fiery heat. Grace stood there for a moment before sauntering out of the library with a smug look on her face.

Quinn looked after his sister in bemusement. It would seem his mischievous sister had decided that while she may not verbalize her dissatisfaction with Lord MacKenna's plans for her, it did not mean that she did not intend to stand up for herself against his parental tyranny. Bravo Grace!

To add to Quinn's further amusement, their father had furiously torn up the library looking for his prized snuff, which he liked to indulge in every evening, but he kept checking to see if the box was still empty. However, the snuff was not the only thing to mysteriously meet its demise; their father's favorite scotch took flight from the bottle leaving it empty. However, it was the sudden disappearance of Lord MacKenna's favorite hunting rifle that sent him into a rage; he never was able to determine its whereabouts. Lord MacKenna now possessed an even more disagreeable disposition than before. Grace all the while played the innocent and helpless young woman; while her brother silently admired her accomplishing feats of reminding him of military elegance.

When it came time for Quinn to return to his ship, it was a sad day for Grace who had come to rely on her brother's presence. After she had seen her brother off, Grace returned to the refuge of her room. As she entered she took in the beautiful landscape from her window before turning towards the fireplace and the warmth it offered. She sat in the high-backed chair she kept nearby and then noticed a gift. It was beautifully wrapped in golden brown paper with a delicate red ribbon tied into a large bow. Grace fingered the paper before picking up the note tucked into the ribbon. Opening it up she read:

My dearest sister Grace,

It is with great sadness that I must depart from your company given the predicament you find yourself in, but I fear my profession has responsibilities which I must attend to.

My only hope while I am gone that you do not lose yourself as I do not wish to see you again as I have this visit. Although, your attack on that poor defenseless tree was a beautiful sight to see. I would like to see you whole and the bearer of much happiness.

I will leave you only with these last parting words. May you someday be able to take flight as every young LADY should be able to speak her own mind.

Affectionately Your brother,

Quinn

Grace smiled at her brother's words of encouragement before setting the note aside. Slowly and carefully, so as not to rip the paper, she unwrapped the mysterious present, a sense of excitement hit her, as she loved presents. It was a book and the smell of fresh leather hit her nose bringing her the comfort of familiarity. She turned over the book and opened the cover to reveal the title, A Vindication of the Rights of Women penned by Mary Wollstonecraft. Grace sat for some moments just running her fingers over the title, the phrase 'rights of women' running through her head like an excited child, before opening the volume and beginning her journey into the arguments set forth by Mary Wollstonecraft.

When Richard had recovered enough to journey downstairs he was able to enjoy the company of Darcy and Elizabeth which brought some comfort to his turmoil. His fever may have been conquered, but the rest of his problems had not been. However, he hid them well even from the man who was like a brother to him. So well in fact, that Darcy was almost able to forget that his cousin had not been so foolish as to journey in the rain to Pemberley, but there were daily reminders that it had taken place.

They were in the library partaking in an after dinner brandy, when Darcy became concerned with the quantity Richard was imbibing. Taking a closer look Darcy observed the dark circles under his cousin's eyes. Long ago those same eyes had been brightened by Richard's lively character, but they now bore a haunted look that it caused him to frown. "You seem different," Darcy remarked softly as Richard stood by the fireplace, casually leaning against the mantelpiece.

"War is hell Darcy." He took a drink. "You drink enough and hopefully you're numb enough to block out the horror." Richard looked at the fire, not at Darcy as he made this proclamation.

"You will be alright….won't you?" Darcy asked with an emotional reservation reminiscent of a curious cat which still was not fully confident that it wanted to test an approach toward moving water.

Richard paused before nodding apprehensively. "I honestly don't know, but I'm going to make a proper attempt at it." He gave a lopsided smile, which didn't quite reach his eyes. "I was actually contemplating matrimony," remarked Richard suddenly as he came away from the fireplace and sat in a chair and casually leaned back and took a sip of brandy.

Richard's words so shocked Darcy, who had risen to refill his glass, that the decanter slipped from his fingers and shattered as Darcy turned to stare at his cousin. "I beg your pardon?" Darcy cried.

The sound of shattering glass caused Richard to tense and almost spill the contents of his glass. That noise was so unsettling that it took him a moment to recover. He desperately tried to school his reaction until a more appropriate time; however he would not be able to run from the room this time. He hoped Darcy had not noticed his change in demeanor. Richard regarded Darcy as he took a sip of brandy to calm his emotions, pleased with diverting away from a topic he was not yet ready to discuss. He grinned roguishly. "I see I have your attention."

Richard was calmly drinking his brandy, which irritated Darcy even more. Beginning to recover from the initial shock, Darcy moved across the room. "You always swore you would die a bachelor. "

"Well that still remains true. She sent me away." Richard moodily looked down at the amber liquid dancing in his glass, a little to the left and it would spill in his lap.

"You mean you left?" remarked Darcy matter-of-factly being well versed in his cousin's ideas of bachelorhood.

"I am a man of propriety. She turned me away and I merely complied with the lady's wish."

Darcy furrowed his brow and looked askance.

"Alright," Richard sighed leaning forward in the chair and placing his elbows on his knees, "I turned back, but she turned me away, again."

"So," said Darcy slowly, "this is why you risked your health by riding in the rain? "

"Perhaps." Richard suddenly busied himself with an imaginary stain on his pants. He did not like the direction that this conversation was going; in fact he disliked the idea of talking about Lady Grace at all. She turned him away which meant she was not worth a second look.

"And would this lady," said Darcy smoothly "would she perchance be called Grace." Richard regarded Darcy silently. "You may have mentioned her once or twice in your sleep," added Darcy dismissively.

"Did I?" was Richard's careful reply. Bloody hell, who was he deceiving, she was worth more than just a second look; she was worth thousands more. Bloody woman was intent on making him miserable wherever he went. Blast it all.

"Yes, you mentioned her more than once." Darcy watched the play of emotions run across his cousin's face and became more convinced that something had occurred between Richard and this lady.

Richard loosened his cravat and took a long drink of his brandy. It was no use trying to decide what he thought of Lady Grace before speaking to Darcy. He would require Darcy's help in figuring out his dilemma. He just hoped that Darcy was easier on him than he had been with Darcy in regards to Elizabeth. "She's Irish." He gulped down some more brandy in apparent contest with Darcy who had just refilled his abandoned glass while Richard was on his fourth. "A real spitfire!" It appeared he was winning the contest as he took another drink of brandy. "She called me domineering. I didn't particularly appreciate that." Richard had worked himself into another moody emotional predicament, looking much like a puppy which had been caught in the rain. He took another long drink of brandy. She had dismissed him. The nerve of her!

Silence remained for some moments as Darcy remembered the first time he had seen Elizabethand how hard he had tried to deny his attraction to her. He had inevitably failed miserably, which given how much happiness he now felt with her by his side, was not such a bad result. It appeared that denial about ones feelings for a lady was a family trait. It must be something in the bloodline for how else would one explain the hardheadedness of the Darcy and Fitzwilliam men. However, that did not mean Darcy was not amused by the predicament his cousin was in, for while he sympathized, he was also looking forward to returning the favor of endless teasing that Richard had kindly bestowed upon him. Darcy observed Richard and grinned slowly. "No, I don't see you taking very kindly to her calling you domineering, but in the lady's defense she is right."

Richard glared at him. "I am not domineering."

"Come now Richard, you like to have your way." Darcy's mouth twitched as he observed the scowl that clouded his cousin's features. "Stop brooding Richard. That's my job."

Richard shot up out of chair, nearly spilling his drink, and began to pace. "I did not like being called domineering, but I did not mind it either. If it had been anyone else I would be angry, but not with her."

Darcy's bit back a smile. "So the Irish lass has claimed your approval then?"

Richard stopped and turned to glare at Darcy. "She's infuriating. She likes Thor more than me." If Richard had been feeling anymore dramatic he might have thrown up his hands for affect, but he was more interested in staring into the flames of the crackling fire.

"You're jealous of a horse Richard?" asked Darcy incredulously.

"Yes I'm jealous of my own damn horse. My own damn horse gets more affection from her than I do." Richard picked up his glass of brandy and threw his head back effectively emptying it.

Darcy was attempting to hold back laughter. Richard scowled. "Stop laughing" he bit out between clenched teeth.

"Richard" said Darcy failing miserably at holding back laughter "if you could just see yourself."

Richard sighed. Darcy was going to amuse himself at his expense. Well, given how much amusement he had garnered from Darcy's troubled path to happiness with Elizabeth it was the least he could do for Darcy. That did not mean he had to enjoy the experience though. He needed another drink.

Chapter 7: Where gumption is shown, but blood is shed

Posted on 2011-03-14

George Wickham ran from Lady Grace MacKenna as fast as he could. His boots pounded the ground and he had nary a thought about what his 'innocent' actions were about to create. His concern was the emotions which had welled inside of him when he had beheld how he had wounded her. His actions were contemptible, but he was of the carpe diem sort, in that he seized opportunities when they arose. He held no concern for the cost of those actions.

His pronouncement earned him congratulatory slaps on the back by fellow drunken men in the tavern. They wanted to know how was her performance, was her skin as soft as it appeared, did her bedroom desire match the color of her hair. He found himself with each answer to a question spinning a lie like a thread that turned around the spinning wheel until it became entangled into a spool of yarn. He could not stop and when he was sober enough the next morning instead of standing up like a gentleman and atoning for his actions, he ran like the coward he had always been.

It was a brisk morning and a fresh snow blanketed the ground, creating an expanse of white, but it did not seem to affect Colonel Fitzwilliam's purpose. The snow crunched beneath his boots as he made his way out to the stables to prepare Thor for the ride he and Darcy would take to check on the grounds. A stable hand could easily have readied Thor, but he found that he preferred to do the task himself. It had a calming effect on him to go through the process of saddling his horse or brushing his coat. How he longed for that calm now, but upon entering the stable Thor took one look at him and proceeded to snort and stamp his feet restlessly.

"Calm yourself Thor," Richard murmured as he approached Thor's stall, picked up his brush and entered. Thor noted the brush in his hand and casually approached his master. As soon as Thor was close enough, Richard stepped forward and began to brush his coat. The motions of brushing Thor began to calm his turbulent thoughts. "You know Thor, I much liked Lady Grace. I suspect you did too."

Thor snorted as if in response, but as horses were want to snort at anytime, who could be sure what the action meant. Richard just smiled. Yes, he had been much intrigued by Lady Grace. He furrowed his brows in concentration as he continued to brush Thor. He took in the familiar smell of the stables, a mixture of hay, animals and muck as he contemplated his next move. It was clear to him that he was intent on taking some particular action in regards to Lady Grace, but what exactly he did not know. For all of his military prowess he found himself at a loss when confronted with a mere woman. Just the thought of not knowing what to do put him in an inhospitable mood; he detested not knowing what to do. Richard scowled. "Thor she sent us away."

"You mean she sent you away" exclaimed Darcy from behind him.

Richard turned to glare at Darcy. "Darcy! Hold your tongue. This doesn't concern you."

Darcy grinned in amusement at his cousin. He casually leaned against the stable walls to watch Richard carry on this ridiculous display of indifference. Lady Grace meant something to his cousin and he was determined to find out just how dear she was. Perhaps, he should be preparing Elizabeth and Georgiana for an addition to the family.

Richard turned back toward Thor and regarded him for a moment. It was inconceivable, but just looking at Thor brought to him the image of Lady Grace, her back to him as she silently murmured to Thor. She had been breathtaking to behold in that moment. He eyed Thor and sighed. "If I promised that we would see her again would you please let me take you out for a run? Perhaps an extra sugar cube would be more to your liking?"

Thor turned his head slightly towards his master before nuzzling him. Richard chuckled and affectionately patted Thor on the nose. Richard pulled a sugar cube from his pocket which Thor happily took from his outstretched hand. A moment later he was astride Thor as we waited for Darcy to mount his own horse. As they trotted out of the stable within moments they were racing. It was habit for them to compete in a brotherly fashion. It was during this stiff competition that Richard forgot the rest of his troubles as he became focused on the thrill of winning. His legs gripped Thor's flank as he urged him on faster and faster. The wind whipped around him as he focused on the large oak ahead that marked the finish line.

Lady Grace was successfully finding pursuits to distract her from her father's intense rhetoric. She found herself devouring Wollstonecraft on long walks across the countryside. It was far more preferable to anything she had to endure at home. It was a calming time when she was among the rolling hills and the sound of the wind teasing the branches of the trees were around to speak to her. When she didn't have her nose in Wollstonecraft or wandering the countryside she was closeted in her father's library. In an effort to distract herself from the impending marriage that was sure to come once her father found a man gullible enough to accept she found herself perusing any medical book she could get her hands on. She found herself searching for some clue to Colonel Fitzwilliam's condition.

It was on such a morning, while perusing the medical books in the library, that she remembered the evening at the ball and witnessing the Colonel's distress which had remained with her. She touched her neck where the bruises had been, having long since faded, and for a moment she was transported back to the first time Colonel Fitzwilliam had touched her in an intimate manner. Her lips unconsciously opened and she closed her eyes as she recalled the glowing embers of his eyes. His eyes had been a deep mahogany swirling with emotion she couldn't quite identify. The loud thunder of a door being thrown open jolted her from her thoughts, startling her.

"What is this rubbish doing in my house?" Lord MacKenna filled the doorway; his face flushed with anger, and was holding a book above his head.

Grace gasped. Her beloved Wollstonecraft! She stood and was surprised she didn't collapse right back down in fear. "Quinn gave it to me as a gift, Father."

Lord MacKenna's eyes narrowed at his daughter. He walked toward her with calculated determination before stopping mere inches from her. "I will not have this in my home. Burn it!"

Her father has spoken with such deadly calm but she was not ready to part with her brother's extraordinary gift. Her father had already taken so much from her and perhaps it was a last bought of resistance or maybe it was a desire to prove to herself that she had not truly died. She took a deep steadying breath, squared her shoulders and set her chin at a defiant angle. "No. I will not."

It was a tense moment before Lord MacKenna's anger ignited at her defiance. His face became red and his gaze full of furry. He took in the appearance of his only daughter, her red hair and flashing green eyes and more importantly her frail appearance. It almost gave his anger pause, but it was quickly demolished as her defiance was not to be borne. "You dare to defy me? You are in my home and just as I own this property, I own you Grace which means that you are mine to command."

Grace flinched as her father in his anger shook the book in her face. "This rhetoric is not welcome under my roof. I want it gone."

Despite her rising fear she could not bring herself to destroy such a beautiful book. It only meant more to her that it came from Quinn. Quinn her dearest brother who always made her laugh even when she was cross with him. "No! I will not destroy it," she cried.

Lord MacKenna was furious and Grace found herself pushed roughly aside as her father stalked in determination toward the fire. No! She moved and grabbed her father's arm, halting his attempt to throw the book into the fire. "Please, father," she begged. "Quinn gave this to me. Please don't take this from me. It is all I have left."

"Let go, Grace." Lord MacKenna shook his arm roughly in an attempt release his daughter's tight grip on his arm.

Grace made a grab for the book in his hand. However, he would not yield. It was but a moment of struggle before her father grew more furious. He roughly pulled his arm out of her grip and as he went to throw the book into the flames she made one last attempt to capture back her prized gift. It was in that moment when he finally lost patience and he violently pushed her away and sent her hurtling backwards. She saw the book go up in flames right before her head made contact with the edge of a table. She felt a searing pain as a scream ripped through her and she tumbled to the ground, barely catching herself before she hit her head for a second time.

She felt rather than saw her father move toward her. He had just placed his hand on her arm and she jerked back as if she had been burned. She slowly lifted her head to look at her father, despite the pain, and the look on his face was almost one of concern, but she knew better. "Don't touch me," she hissed.

Lord MacKenna was in turmoil. He had not meant to hurt his daughter, but she had defied him. Perhaps, she deserved some punishment, but despite his feelings he still felt that he should be assured that she would live. "Grace, I am sorry. Allow me to help you."

Grace struggled to stand and when she finally did she glared at her father. "I cannot be here right now. I must go."

"Grace, don't be ridiculous. You are hurt and should not be running out of doors."

His words did nothing to halt Grace's path to the door as she kept moving. She fought down the nauseous feeling in the pit of her stomach; she didn't know if it was from fear or the throbbing pain which was making itself at home in her head. All she knew is she could not stay here now. She knew she was being foolish and that she probably needed a physician's attention, but she felt this overwhelming desire to be away from the oppressive house. She needed to get away.

She grabbed her cloak and stumbled out the door onto the icy steps. She took a deep breath as she hurried down the steps, unconsciously touching the back of her head and wincing, as she ran toward the end of the drive. She ignored her father's bellows and her mother's cries to return. All she heard was her breath coming out in sharp gasps and the crunch of her feet on the snow. She ran and stumbled she knew not how far nor where she was headed, but it must have been for some time. It was the sudden feeling of lightheadedness which forced her to stop.

The pain in her head was increasing as she tried to still her panicked breaths. The cold was beginning to settle in around her as if threatening her. She had been so determined to run that she had failed to notice that storm clouds had rolled in. The rain had gone and brought the frigid temperatures of snow in its stead. Her breath, she noticed, was coming out in wisps of white. She rubbed her arms in an attempt to generate warmth. The pain shooting through her head caused her to raise her hand to the back of her head and what she saw staining her hand when she pulled it back into her line of vision was not promising.

Her breath caught in her throat. It was blood! She suddenly felt more nauseous than before. The world around her became disoriented. She couldn't focus and in a panic she tried to take a step back in the direction she came, but she faltered and ended up on her knees. The pain! She clutched both sides of her head and squeezed her eyes shut hoping it would clear her vision. Silent tears ran down her face as the severity of her foolishness began to descend upon her.

In desperation to get back to the house she tried to crawl, but she had not made it farther than a few feet before she collapsed again. She moaned and rolled onto her back. She was too weak to move and realized that she would probably die out here in the cold and no one would mourn her. They would remember how foolish she had been though. That much they would remember. As she lay on the ground, she began to shiver, a fresh snowfall began to drift down to the ground and the intensity of the pain combined with the cold finally caused her to lose consciousness.

Lady Matlock was startled from writing a letter by a commotion in the hall. She quickly rose to see what the problem was and was unprepared for the scene that was before her. Lady Grace MacKenna hung limply in her husband's arms and she noted that her hair was matted to the back of her head. The poor girl looked pale and near death. What in the world had she been about? The mothering instinct in her reared itself immediately as she rushed forward to assist her husband.

Directions were directed to the servants as she and Lord Matlock ascended the stairs with the unconscious Lady Grace. Lord Matlock discreetly left the room while they removed her wet clothes before placing her in a bed which was piled high with blankets and a servant worked furiously to ignite a blaze in the fireplace. Lady Matlock directed another servant to bring a chair beside the bed and when that was achieved she immediately took up residence. Lady Grace's breathing was too slow and she wasn't warming up enough to her liking. She sent to the kitchen for warm bricks to be placed in the bed.

"Henry, where did you find her?"

Lord Matlock took his wife's query as an indication that it was safe to reenter the room. He looked at his wife and in an attempt to calm her placed his strong hand on her shoulder. "Vincent and I were out riding to take a look at the outer edges of the estate. We came across her unconscious in the snow. She has taken a blow to the head."

Lady Matlock gasped and immediately rose from the chair to take a careful look at the back of her head. The wound did not look good at all. It looked ugly and painful. "I need a basin of water and some cloth. Where is the doctor?"

"The doctor has already been sent for, my dear." Lord Matlock watched his wife concentrate her attentions on Lady Grace and smiled slightly. She would never cease in her desire to take under her wing a wounded creature. It was one of the many things he loved about her even if she could be exasperating at times. He was a lucky man indeed to have such a wonderful woman as his wife.

Lady Matlock was full of questions. It was no secret that Lady Grace had experienced a difficult last few months, but who would wish her such ill fortune? The rumors which swirled around claiming Lady Grace had allowed herself to be bedded, she believed none of. Lady Grace was a true lady. There was something not right with the story which was circulating. However much she detected something afoot, she was more concerned with the young ladies health. A blow to the head could have deadly results.

The arrival of the doctor stilled Lady Matlock's musings who was forced to stand aside. The doctor, Mr. Smith, examined Lady Grace in silence, only an occasional cluck of his tongue indicating possible concern. It was a mere five minutes, but for the others awaiting news of Lady Grace's condition it felt like hours, Mr. Smith turned and looked at Lord and Lady Matlock somberly before he spoke.

"She took a significant blow to the head, but I believe the one thing which may have allowed her to live was falling in the snow." At the puzzled looks he received from Lord and Lady Matlock he elaborated. "The cold of the snow stayed the blood flow. She is in danger of succumbing to her exposure to the cold and damp, however."

Lady Matlock closed her eyes and held fast to her husband's arm. There was still a possibility of death. She took a deep breath to steel her emotions before opening her eyes and pinning Mr. Smith with a harsh stare. "Mr. Smith I will not have anyone dying while under my roof. She will live. It is the only fact I will accept."

Mr. Smith started. "Lady Matlock it is not so simple. She has taken a blow to the head and was exposed to the elements for some time."

Lady Matlock's eyes narrowed and Mr. Smith felt himself take an involuntary step back. He looked to Lord Matlock for aide, but saw he was to receive none. Lord Matlock had his hands clasped behind his back and was looking at the floor in silent contemplation. If Lady Grace died he did not want to bear the news to Richard. He was unclear how much of an attachment there was, but he did know that Lady Grace already held some piece of his youngest son's heart.

Lady Matlock was not pleased. "Mr. Smith let me make myself perfectly clear. Lady Grace will not die. Do we understand one another?"

Mr. Smith found himself nodding. "Of course, Lady Matlock. I will do everything I can to prevent her death."

Lady Matlock eyed him once more. She nodded briskly. "Good! Now what do you need to assist you in your efforts?"

Chapter 8

Posted on 2011-04-18

The clopping of the hoof beats of horses on the cobblestone some distance away could be heard in the quiet morning along the soon-to-be bustling docks of Portsmouth. The sea water calmly lapped at the sides of the great ships resting in port and the gulls were voicing their presence overhead. They were familiar sounds to Captain Quinn MacKenna. He took a deep breath of salty, sea air, enjoying feeling of refreshment.

He observed the movement of the first signs of morning life on the dock while allowing the slow bobbing of his ship to lull him into a relaxed state. The dockyard porter had just made the short walk from the Porter's Lodge and was just arriving at the Main Gate. The porter would soon ring the muster bell, calling to order the beginning of the work day, filling the docks with people.

Quinn observed the three buildings of the Great Naval Storehouses which housed provisions for the ships as well as other equipment. Then there was the great Ropehouse which produced the many lengths of rope required for ships to sail. Lastly, there was a new addition, an idea of Samuel Bentham; the Block Mills. It was where they made thousands of pulley blocks used for rigging the ships. The dockyard would become a place of exhausting activity. It was never dull.

Quinn looked beyond the dockyard where he could see the nearby city of Portsea. If the people from back home could observe him now, they would barely recognize him. His debonair, devil may care attitude, and acting like a prized peacock to annoy his parents was not present now. Instead, there stood a man who was strong and almost arrogant in his confidence; in addition, a tense air of danger hovered around him. Captain Quinn MacKenna was a mysterious sort of man when on his ship and among other seafarers. He was well respected among those who knew him and feared by those who did not.

Currently, Quinn found his thoughts turning to his sister Grace, which caused his countenance to darken into a frown. He held a very special affection for his sister and he was not in the habit of forgiveness toward those who harmed her. Grace rightly proclaimed that had she been a man, she would not be in the situation she was in now. The stark reality of what she could face if their Father was successful with his marriage plan left a bitter taste in his mouth. A part of him believed things might have resulted in a different outcome had he been there, but then his Father should have been protecting Grace too. It would seem they had both failed in some way.

Quinn currently had two plans in regards to his sister. First, he planned to locate Mr. Wickham and call him out. Secondly, the identity of the owner of the mysterious handkerchief with the embroidered initials R.A.F. must be discovered. He had observed the comfort his sister derived from the scrap of fabric. In fact, if he didn't know any better he'd believe it was a token of affection to his sister. Given the disastrous slander from the brief acquaintance Grace had with Mr. Wickham, he was not about to see such a mistake made again. The questions in his mind were: who is R.A.F. and just what the bloody hell were his intentions toward his sister?

Quinn paced back and forth across the ship as he contemplated what his next move would be. The worry his sister managed to incur within him only proceeded to make his mood darker. He loved his little sister, but she could make his nerves a knotted mess on occasion. He sighed as he smiled briefly. Life was never dull with his sister and for that he could not be angry. Suddenly the muster bell rang, and a chorus of voices began to serenade the dockyard as a new day began. Quinn had business to attend to before he could initiate tasks he had in mind for taking care of the personal business related to Grace.

Lady Matlock was exhausted. She had not slept at all since the unexpected arrival of Lady Grace. Instead she had spent the night worriedly watching over the young woman. The quiet of the house was uncomfortable with each moment Lady Grace did not wake and yet with each rise and fall of her chest it meant that she was still alive. It was a good sign, but it would be even better if she would awaken.

Lord Matlock had dispatched a messenger late last evening to Lord and Lady MacKenna to notify them of their daughter's condition. She had been expecting their arrival, but they never came. Lady Matlock furrowed her brow in confusion. What parent would not immediately be at the side of their injured child? Perhaps, she thought, Lord and Lady MacKenna would come this morning to be with their daughter.

As the first rays of sunlight streamed through the window, Lady Matlock glanced again at her patient, for she found herself feeling fiercely protective of Lady Grace. She stood and walked slowly to the window. A fresh blanket of snow covered the ground creating a mystical landscape. Sighing, she busied herself with poking the embers, if only to distract herself. While at the hearth, she almost missed the quiet whimper coming from the other side of the room.

Lady Matlock swiftly moved over to the bed, her skirts quietly swishing as she did so. Sitting on the edge of the bed she regarded Lady Grace for any sign further signs of distress. She pursed her lips and brushed back some stray strands of hair back from Grace's face.

"Grace," she whispered "you must come back to us. I already told the doctor you would recover. You would not want to make me a liar now would you?" Lady Matlock sighed in frustration as Lady Grace's eyes still remained closed.

Lord and Lady MacKenna were partaking in their breakfast. The meal was eaten with no words passing between them, although there was the occasional clanking of silverware or clatter of a cup being returned to its saucer. The newspaper which Lord MacKenna hid behind rustled as he turned the pages, but there was no morning conversation between the Lord and Lady of the Manor. The morning light streamed through the window and a fire burned in the fireplace to stave off the morning chill.

Lady MacKenna nervously twisted her napkin between her fingers. She regarded her husband from across the table, although he was currently hidden behind the pages of his newspaper, and she pursed her lips in indecision. It was not lost on her that her daughter had been absent from the Manor since yesterday. She was not one to question the actions of her husband, as it was not her place, but she was concerned about her daughter.

Lady MacKenna found she was at odds with herself. She was concerned about the welfare of her daughter, but at the same time she found herself furious with Grace for her behavior and so agreed with her husband about marrying Grace off to some obscure gentleman so that their family name could be restored. She desired the restoration of their good name more than anything. She longed for the day when she could walk into a ballroom and not hear the whispers; she did not want her friends to look at her with pity. She even considered herself lucky, for had this been London, both she and her husband would have been shunned for Grace's actions. Yes, she mused, that was lucky, indeed!

However, Lady MacKenna found she could not resist asking her husband what she desired to know about Grace. "Sir, might I inquire as to the whereabouts of Grace?"

Lord MacKenna grunted behind his paper. Lady MacKenna repeated herself and this time Lord MacKenna dropped the edge of the paper and stared at his wife. "What about her?"

"Where is she? I have not seen her since yesterday."

Lord MacKenna frowned as the memory of the accident came forth. He fingered his breast pocket where the note from Lord Matlock, which had been delivered late last night, rested. He hoped his wife didn't notice. "She has gone to stay with Lord and Lady Matlock."

Lady MacKenna scowled. "Sir, how did this visit come about?"

Lord MacKenna sighed and calmly placed his paper on the table. He meticulously folded it and then stared at it for some time while his wife impatiently tapped her fingers on the table. "Grace and I had a misunderstanding in the study. She fell and then ran from the house. I received a note from Lord Matlock last evening and she will be staying with them for a spell."

"Well we must go to Grace."

"Madame, that is not necessary."

She was quite sure that her husband was not telling the entire story, but what were important now were appearances. It they were to secure their place back in society then they must act accordingly. "But we must keep up appearances. Lord and Lady Matlock have much influence. It would reflect badly on us if we were not to at least pretend to show concern for Grace's well being."

Lord MacKenna marveled at the wisdom in his wife's words. "Perhaps you are right my dear. We will pay a call on the Matlock's and inquire after Grace after breakfast." He smiled at her from the other end of the table before taking a sip of tea and returning to his morning newspaper.

Grace awoke to pain. Her limbs felt heavy and lethargic. As she struggled to open her eyes she realized she was in a very soft bed which was not her own. She was cocooned beneath a pile of blankets and she heard the crackling of a fire from somewhere in the room. She finally conquered the battle to open her eyes with a painful yelp as she shifted her head. As the pain subsided she slowly, so as not to create the painful jolt from earlier, scooted herself into a sitting position . By the time she had achieved this she felt exhausted, as if she had just run.

It took her a moment to catch her breath and take in her surroundings. The room was done in soft blues and yellows. It was a beautiful color combination. It was well into the early afternoon given the angle of the sun. Grace could see the snowfall was inches deep and she shivered as what had happened the day before came back to her. She could have been buried beneath that snow if she had not been--she paused---where was she? The sound of the door opening caused Grace to turn. She scrunched her face in pain as she turned too fast to see who had entered the chamber.

The woman who entered quickly moved to her side. "Are you well, Lady Grace?"

This woman knew her name.

"Oh dear, forgive me. We have only ever met in passing. I am Lady Matlock." She smiled warmly.

Grace's eyes went wide and flew to Lady Matlock's face. She felt her face flush in mortification and found she could not speak. This was Colonel
Fitzwilliam's mother. She did her best to quell the rising panic. She was in Colonel Fitzwilliam's home, well, his parents' home. This was the home where he had grown up. She swallowed. What would he think if he found her here after the callous was she had treated him? Would he think she had orchestrated this? She could not believe he would be pleased to see her among his family. She must leave here. Colonel Fitzwilliam could not find her here.

She had just pulled back the covers, forgetting momentarily the presence of Lady Matlock, and was in the process of getting out of bed when she was halted by the soft touch of a hand on her shoulder.

"Grace, what do you think you are doing? You will not be leaving this bed until you are well."

Grace stilled. She shook her head in protest. "I cannot be here. He cannot see me. I would not be welcome."

Lady Matlock raised an eyebrow. Perhaps she had hit her head harder than had been supposed. "I am afraid I do not understand you? Who would not welcome you? Your father?"

Grace frowned momentarily confused. "My Father?" She paused before continuing. "If you think my father will come here you are terribly mistaken Lady Matlock."

"I am sure he loves you and will be concerned about you."

Grace warily eyed Lady Matlock debating how much to reveal to her. From the determined look in her eye it did not appear she would make it out of this house without some resistance. Lady Matlock was used to having her way, just like her son apparently. The acorn really did not fall from the tree. Grace bit back a smile as she recalled just how stubborn the Colonel could be. "Lady Matlock, you have been very gracious, but my father will not come."

"Nonsense! I am sure your parents are eager to see how you fare." Lady Matlock, however, began to doubt her words as she took in the time of day.

"They will not come. My father is the cause of my injury." Grace did not look at Lady Matlock and so, did not see the look of horror cross her features.

Grace felt Lady Matlock, in a motherly fashion; smooth the hair away from the sides of her face. An emotion which she could not quite identify welled inside of her at this comforting kindness. She bit her lip to stay the tears which were threatening to spill over as she continued to refuse to meet Lady Matlock's eyes. A resolve took a hold of her; it would not do to feel sorry for herself. She had to square her shoulders and confront her problems head on. She could not hide from the world forever. "I do not want your pity," murmured Grace. "I don't want anyone's pity."

"I apologize." Lady Matlock dropped her hands. "I did not mean to offend you in any way."

Grace smiled reassuringly at Lady Matlock. "You did not offend me. I am just so tired of everyone. You grow used to the vipers' tongues Lady Matlock. It becomes commonplace after a while, but I can't tolerate the stares."

Lady Matlock smiled in admiration and approval. "You will remain here until you are well again. I will send up some food for you and then you should get some rest."

After Lady Matlock left the room Grace sank back into the bed. She missed the entrance of the maid bringing a tray into her room and instead slept well into the late afternoon. While she slept her parents did pay call on Matlock Manor, but they stayed for only ten minutes, just long enough to enquire after her and then depart.