Posted on Tuesday, 20 November 2007
October was a mournful month for the residents of Pemberley. George Franklin Darcy, after some months of repeated illness had died. His tenants, neighbors and relatives mourned his death; his two children, however, endured the most pain. His daughter cried passionate unrestrained tears into her brother’s arms when she could and otherwise avoided her visiting relatives and all company, save that of her governess’s.
Though Fitzwilliam Darcy, at 23 years, did not cry the passionate tears of his 11 year old sister, he felt the loss of his father as much. So great was this pain on the morning of his father’s funeral that the company and consolations of friends and relatives seemed absolutely suffocating. He was inattentive so much so that—if he were not the master of Pemberley—his guests would have harbored some resentment.
“Where is Georgiana?” boomed his aunt Lady Catherine in an attempt to catch his attention.
“I do not know madam.”
“Is she with the governess? Call her down for me.”
Fitzwilliam did not obey, but his elder cousin did in his stead.
“Your father was a good man, Fitzwilliam,” began his uncle in an overly compassionate voice. He did not have a chance to continue, however, as Darcy was at last rescued by his butler.
He finished the business he was called upon quickly but remained in the study, walking contemplatively around the room. He had never hoped to be master of Pemberley so soon; even as his father lay confined to his bed, Fitzwilliam had hoped that he would recover. He had gone to visit a friend in the north with this false hope and came rushing back only to find his father silent and dead. Now in his study, he settled in behind the desk, closed his eyes in anguish and drowned for some moments in simple grief, undisturbed by the assurances of others.
Fitzwilliam Darcy was the heir and only son of George Darcy and at 23 years of age, tall, handsome, and confident Fitzwilliam had known his father better than anyone else, and thus liked him the most. But those who knew the family thought more highly of the son than the father. Indeed, Fitzwilliam had the fine judgment of his father and something more: he was less reticent than the former Darcy, clever, and more tempered. Thus while reserved George Darcy had been too often offensive to others, his son was sure to be liked wherever he appeared.
But to this, Fitzwilliam was perfectly oblivious. No man on earth could compare to his father. He sat mourning, filled with wrenching guilt for not noticing the signs of his illness earlier, he regretted missing the last month of his life. But at last he remembered the time and that he must attend a funeral. Just as his thoughts bent in that direction his cousin Richard Fitzwilliam opened the study’s door and swiftly entered with Georgiana holding his hand. She flew into her brother’s arms as soon as they entered the study and with pleading eyes begged him to stay with her and not leave her with aunt Catherine again.
“It’s time we left for the church," Richard said over her sobs. "We should go immediately.”
Darcy nodded solemnly, and quickly comforted and urged Georgiana to return to her governess. Then, after Richard begged his mother to make sure Georgiana was left alone, they were off.
Darcy later felt very grateful for the half hour of solitude in the study. It allowed him to face the funeral and the subsequent procession with near equanimity. The clouds turned dark as the deceased was laid beneath the ground. The guests came and spoke with Darcy, expressing their compassion, and saying what must be said at funerals. But Darcy’s mind was still focused on his father, and though he said everything appropriate he hardly knew who he was speaking with.
It started to rain steadily and the visitors left in a slow procession. With his family already riding away in his carriage, Darcy also prepared to leave with his cousin, but at the last moment he wavered some yards from the grave. It was then that he saw her.
A genteel young woman, very elegantly dressed, was bent before his father’s grave. Utterly astonished he turned to Richard questioningly but Richard seemed just as surprised by the newcomer. She had not been at the funeral, of that they could be sure, and neither man recognized her. The young lady had gently placed a slender rose on the grave and murmured what Darcy was sure was a prayer.
There was a sudden crack of lightening and both Darcy and the lady started. She hastily rose from her position near the grave and at that instant met Fitzwilliam’s gaze. She had large eyes of a hue so distinguishable that they seemed ethereal; but beyond the tears that flooded them, was a bold, wild expression. And immediately Darcy felt he knew her. Her other features-—the delicate angle of her jaw, the full curves of her body, the silky brown, perfect curls that framed her face and her healthy complexion—-were completely unfamiliar him. But there was something familiar in her strange, fine eyes. Darcy was sure that he knew her, or had at least made her acquaintance but he couldn’t place who she was.
She held his gaze for only a moment, and then with a cold nod towards him, she turned and nearly ran to her carriage. And, as it had begun raining fast, Fitzwilliam and his cousin entered their carriage also.
“Who was she?” he asked Richard in a voice thoroughly puzzled and intrigued.
Richard shook his head, “I thought perhaps you would know.”
“I don’t know.” He responded, yet he was sure he did know her.
As the carriage pulled away his eyes settled once again on the cold grave and the rose that gracefully lay upon it.
“Well, sir,” he said softly as he looked towards it, “Goodbye.”
Thoughts of his dead father reigned from that point forward, driving out all else from his mind.
How they spent that month, or the next, can only be imagined. If not for the relatives who frequently called and stayed with them and the business of running the estate, dealing with tenants, and fulfilling the wishes in the deceased's last will, the gloom of the two remaining Darcys might have seeped into their find home, turning Pemberely gray with their gloom. When he was not working on papers or letters in his father's study, Darcy would have but an hour to contemplate the gaping void he was left with, before the butler ushered in one or other of his father's friends or relatives or lawyer.
A frequent caller was Lord Burnham, his father's closest friend. Walter Bennet, Viscount Burnham was from a long line of viscounts that had successively grown in wealth in recent generations. His estate was near to Pembereley--a morning's ride on a good horse.
Truth be told, Fitzwilliam rather found Lord Burnham's visits to be too frequent. Perhaps Lord Burnham understood this.
"I know what gloom is like," he said unexpectedly one evening. Lord Burnham's white, bushy eyebrows drooped low on his eyes as he clutched a wine glass. "That is why I know its better that I come."
His first wife had died, leaving him with two daughters, Rosemary and Elizabeth. The eldest one, Darcy remembered, had died only a few years ago, soon after she had gotten married.
Darcy rested his head back against the couch and let out a deep sigh. "Two have left me and two have left you," he said, "We are even." And yet not so--Lord Burnham and Elizabeth would also feel the loss of Mr. Darcy keenly.
It seemed to Darcy that his father had enjoyed Elizabeth's company as much as Lord Burnham's. A sudden curiosity, that had vaguely nagged Darcy's mind every time Lord Burnham called, overcame him and he was on the point of asking him about his childhood friend when Lord Burnham himself brought her up. "Lizzy would have called on you, of course, if she was home." She was traveling with her step-mother, Lady Amelia, he said.
They played a game of chess, which George Darcy had always done with Lord Burnham.
Darcy inquired if Lord Burnham could tell him how his father had been in the last week of his life. Lord Burnham smiled and spared him a detailed answer; instead, he began to talk nostalgically about the first time he'd beaten George Darcy in chess.
When his guest rose to leave, Darcy mentioned that his father had left a painting in his will for Elizabeth. Lord Burnham patted Darcy's hand, the way he used to when he was a child. "Deliver it yourself," he said. "She'll be home soon."
Now that Lord Burnham was leaving, Darcy suddenly wished to delay him. The house was empty, save Georgianna. He stood for a moment uncertainly, still holding Lord Burnham's hand in a handshake. Lord Burnham smiled sadly and patted his shoulder. "I'll come by tomorrow, then?"