A/N PJC – Thank you for your review. She calls him Fitzwilliam for a couple of reasons. Firstly, even in the privacy of their own homes, married couples often referred to each other as Mr and Mrs Surname. Elizabeth and the Colonel are a love match rather than one of convenience, so the formality of a title is dropped. Secondly, while she occasionally uses his first name, she is simply in the habit of calling him Fitzwilliam. That is what she called him while they were engaged, so it is the name she associates him with. Rather like if you have a friend who goes by a nickname, eg. Mike. You know his name is Michael, and you might call him that occasionally, but in your head he is called Mike.
oOoOoOo
Friday 6th September 1793
Elizabeth had almost given up hope that her husband would return before nightfall. Already, the sky was streaked with pink and purple, and the sun hovered hesitantly above the horizon. Curled up their sitting room with a cup of tea, she was roused from her introspections by the sound of a commotion downstairs. Hastily placing her cup and saucer to the side, she picked up her skirts and rushed to the top of the stairs, from where she could see the front door.
Colonel Fitzwilliam was shrugging off his greatcoat, his hair damp and curly from the drizzle, despite the hat he had just handed to the footman.
"Fitzwilliam!" she called as she rushed down the stairs, and was rewarded with a wide smile, the Colonel's eyes lighting up the moment he heard her voice.
"Elizabeth, darling," he greeted as he pressed a quick kiss to her forehead, aware of the servants looking on.
"I had Cook prepare you posset when it started raining. Come, change out of those wet things, I shall call it up to our sitting room." [1]
The Colonel watched in admiration as his wife began instructing the servants around him. Hot water was sent for, the kitchens were notified of his arrival, a maid was ushered off to find a warming pan. In the weeks since their wedding, Elizabeth had taken life in her stride, growing into the accomplished lady of the house he always knew she could be. When she took his arm and led him up the stairs, he followed quite willingly.
oOoOoOo
Colonel Fitzwilliam had indulged in a hot bath, and was presently curled up on a long chair with his wife, enjoying his third cup of posset. Elizabeth was nestled into his side. He wrapped an arm tightly around her shoulders, as though he could not bear to let her go.
"From the reports I was hearing from the men stationed at Dover, I cannot help but feel that my services will be called upon sooner than we had hoped. On my ride back to you, I had been considering what arrangements we should make, but I wished to consult you first."
"I do not wish to think you leaving, but I understand that ultimately it will be inevitable." Elizabeth laughed softly, "If only I could have fallen in love with a man more inclined towards playing with swords on a training ground that leading men into battle." Though her sigh was amused, Fitzwilliam could hear the tears that she was choking back. "The price I must pay for an accomplished husband, I suppose."
"Indeed," the Colonel sighed, lovingly kissing her temple, "here is what I was thinking – do you recall my cousin Duncannon who attended our wedding?"
"Ah yes," Elizabeth replied, her words tinged with fond remembrance, "the Viscount."
"This year he purchased an estate near Chichester. With his sister at the family estate and his mother living in London, his home is lacking a female presence. I had thought, if it please you, that his company would not be unwelcome, if he offered you a place to stay. I know that you met him only briefly and do not know him well, but he is a good man and my playmate from childhood. I am sure if I asked him he would be happy to play host to you while I am on the Continent – perhaps you could invite one of your sisters to stay with you. Unless, of course," he continued, seeing Elizabeth's brows draw together, "if you would prefer to return home to Longbourn, that could just as easily be arranged.
Elizabeth's lips were pursed as she considered the options. The thought of returning to her childhood home was pleasing, through rose-tinted glasses. In reality, she imagined the transition back to daughter from wife would be jarring. With Colonel Fitzwilliam, she ran the household, planned the menus; she was not accountable to anyone other than her husband. If she stayed at Longbourn for the duration of Fitzwilliam's deployment, she would be stuffed back into little boxes labelled 'daughter' and 'girl'. Elizabeth decided she had settle too comfortably into the role of 'wife' and 'lady' to return there.
Her other option, then, was to stay with her new cousin. The prospect was daunting to say the least. She had only vague recollections of a man with thick, powdered hair and her husband's eyes; their introduction had been brief and the events of the day overwhelming. Since then, he had appeared in some of Fitzwilliam's stories – the well-behaved, staid companion who tried to keep Fitzwilliam grounded, but ended up drawn into the fray. The Colonel confided that his cousin was not nearly as boring as he liked people to assume, and with a little nudging, Duncannon could be even more playful than himself.
None of her options were perfect – regardless of where she went, Fitzwilliam would not be with her. She would just have to make the best of an unfortunate situation.
oOoOoOo
Wednesday 11th September 1793
Colonel Fitzwilliam and his wife enjoyed their rides by the sea. Elizabeth was resplendent in her new riding habit – a dark green outfit which contrasted with Arion's white coat. Fitzwilliam was on his favourite mount, a Hunter with strong bones and a willing disposition.
Some days they would ride at a quiet walk, side by side on the water front, enjoying each other's company and the view. At other times, when Elizabeth was feeling adventurous and the beach was clear of people, they would race at a canter along the sands. In the few months that Elizabeth had been in the saddle, her confidence in her own ability and in the trustworthiness of her pony had grown significantly. Instead of clinging tightly to the reins and panicking every time Arion tossed his head, she enjoyed the freedom which riding granted her. As a grown woman, she was not allowed to run and jump and climb anymore – but she was allowed to press her horse faster until his hooves kicked up sand and the wind almost blew the bonnet from her head.
This morning, a group of children playing had prevented them from racing, so their pace had been slow, but the conversation quick. On the way back, Elizabeth was in a particularly playful mood, and was teasing her husband about his cravat. Jones, his batman, must have been looking at fashion plates, she told him, for she had never seen a soldier with such an elaborately crafted necktie. The exaggerated expression of outrage on his face turned to worry when they turned down their street, as he saw a messenger in military uniform rush up to their front door.
The couple dismounted quickly, leaving the horses to the grooms so they could hasten up the steps, just as the messenger was leaving.
"Orders have come from the Office of the War Minister, sir," the young man panted, "the details are all in the letter – you are needed immediately."
The Colonel's face was solemn as he took the letter from the Butler, to whom it had been handed, as the messenger left. His expression became even more grave the further down he read. Silently, he took Elizabeth's hand and led her through the house until he reached the book room, where he gestured for her to sit as he leant against the mantle.
"We have suffered a great loss at Hondschoote. The Siege of Dunkirk has been lifted, but by all accounts the combination of our forces and the Hanoverians have lost several thousand men – that number was still rising when this missive was sent – and the retreat of our men became necessary because of major strategic mistakes.
"The reports coming in suggest Marshal Freytag was largely responsible for this. His commands during battle weakened the Duke of York's position, and exposed his forces to the French. In short, I have been ordered to the continent. Immediately." [2] His tone was resigned. They had both known this day would soon come.
"I have enough time to escort you to Hensleigh, but I will not be able to stay while you settle in."
"That is as much as we could have hoped for, I suppose."
"Duncannon knows to expect you at some point; I will send an express ahead of us to notify him of our arrival. It will take tomorrow to pack up everything we need from this house and make the arrangements for the servants – we will leave the day after."
oOoOoOo
Friday 13th September 1793
The first indication Elizabeth had that they were approaching Hensleigh Castle was a tall, whitewashed barn. Then a row of workers cottages. Then a farmhouse. Their carriage had wound through woods and around fields, bouncing and bumbling along the country roads until it pulled into the courtyard of her new home. The building was long and low – hardly a castle at all – but rising from behind it was a tall tower, with two small turrets at the sides and an ornate clock at the centre. Built with a dull red brick, the Tudor buildings had a tired, worn appearance, like a linen dress soaked too long in lye and scrubbed too hard on the washboard. [3]
From the arched entrance, Colonel Fitzwilliam's cousin appeared, just as the couple alighted the carriage. John Ponsonby, the Viscount Duncannon, was not unlike other members of the aristocracy – not handsome, but well-bred nonetheless. He had thick blond hair which was powdered an off-white, and the same dark brown eyes as Fitzwilliam. His nose was pronounced and somewhat hooked at the end; his chin was weak and barely present. The wide smile spread across his face was genuine, but the creases by his eyes leant an air of solemnity to his countenance.
"Richard! And the wonderful Mrs Fitzwilliam, it is a pleasure to have you here," he offered with a bow to Elizabeth before he drew the Colonel into a firm embrace.
"It is good to see you coz. I am sorry this is going to be brief, but I am to receive my orders in London as soon as possible, then I will be for the Continent."
"Do you have time for tea, at least?"
"Tea, or brandy, or perhaps a little of both." Duncannon led them into the house. Ordinarily he would have offered Mrs Fitzwilliam his arm, but the Colonel was not willing to let her go until he had to. The entrance hall, then the parlour, had much the same air as the outside of the building – worn and a little tired.
"When you said you had bought Hensleigh Castle, coz, I pictured… well, a castle."
"Ah, yes, the beautiful history in approximate translation," Duncannon sighed, a silly, besotted smile on his face. "Decades ago, during that blasted war with the French – I can't remember which one it was, the one just before we were born, or perhaps while we were in the nursery…" The Colonel and Elizabeth were led past a wide staircase covered with a once-resplendent dark green carpet which was faded where time and feet had worn the colour away.
"Anyway, we were at war with the French, and the owner at the time, Sir Horace something or other, had no use of this place – he never used it as a home – so he leased it to the government." The small group had arrived at a small parlour. The furniture was at least a decade out of date and the walls were decorated in a manner Elizabeth was sure had not been fashionable since she was a small child.
"This place was used a prison for the French prisoners of war. You see the tower?" he gestured out of the window. It was the clock tower they had seen on the way in to the manor. "That was where they kept the naval officers."
Colonel Fitzwilliam leaned to whisper into Elizabeth's ear, too quietly for his cousin to hear, "My cousin is a smarter man than his interesting conversation style belies."
"So these French men wrote home, referring to this place as Chateau de Hensleigh, and the name stuck. Of course, the word Chateau does not really translate as castle, but we must forgive the little folk around here who did not know any better." His eyes lit up suddenly, "You must allow me to show you drawings, Mrs Fitzwilliam! The officers, during their incarceration, took advantage of the soft walls of the tower – they drew their ships, with full sails and all." Fitzwilliam laughed as he exchanged a look with his wife.
"I am sure Mrs Fitzwilliam would be delighted to see the drawings of some French seaman, given where her husband is heading."
"Oh, goodness, you must pardon me, Mrs Fitzwilliam," Duncannon apologised, "You too, cousin, I am sure you have no wish to hear of the French, you must be sick of the thought of them. I must beg your pardon."
"Do not trouble yourself about it, my Lord," Elizabeth demurred, "Your enthusiasm merely conveys you love for your home, which is everything charming."
"If you refer to my manner, Mrs Fitzwilliam, I could be persuaded to believe you, but if you talk of Hensleigh… I am well aware that only I see the charm in this place – everybody else just sees an old, neglected Elizabethan manor that should be left to fall to ruins."
"You are mistaken, my Lord, very much mistaken," Elizabeth replied. "I think you home has a lot of potential, it is just that nobody has cared for it in a while. I am sure that the presence of a full staff and a Master who cares, Hensleigh Castle will have a new lease of life."
"That is how Elizabeth can help you, is it not?"
"Absolutely. Your input shall be invaluable to say the least, Mrs Fitzwilliam. I have something of an interest in architecture but I have no eye for design and no interest in furniture. Are you willing to assist me in my task? Inevitably, my mother will wish to visit, and I would hate to bring shame upon her with my shabby curtains." Elizabeth laughed at his wide, beseeching eyes, and replied cheerily,
"I am sure you overestimate my ability in this area, my Lord, but I would be pleased to assist you."
They enjoyed the tea and cakes, indulging in light conversation and pastries. The atmosphere was comfortable – the Colonel and Viscount Duncannon had a gentle camaraderie which quickly spread to include Elizabeth. For a few minutes, she could pretend that her husband would not be leaving her shortly. The iron grip she had on his hand gave her away.
When the teapot was empty and plates clear but for crumbs, the Fitzwilliams could not ignore the necessary any longer. Viscount Duncannon tactfully slipped from the room, ostensibly to make sure the Colonel's horse was ready, but really to give the couple a final moment alone.
They stood facing each other, foreheads touching. Fitzwilliam leaned on Elizabeth. Elizabeth leaned on him back. Their hands were entwined; their eyes were closed.
"I love you so much, Lizzy," Colonel Fitzwilliam whispered. His feelings stuck in his throat and choked his words, they pricked and stung his eyes as he reached up to hold him wife's face in his hands. He brushed his lips across her brow, down her nose, along her jaw. He stroked her cheeks frantically as though memorising the shape of her softness and the taste of her smile. They drew each other closer, pressing together as though no distance could part them.
Eventually, they stepped away. Elizabeth held tightly to his arm as they made their way to the entrance hall.
"I am proud of you, though I shall miss you terribly – remember that I will be here, waiting for you. Come back to me, Richard."
"Always."
Elizabeth kissed her husband goodbye on the steps of the Manor, and she waved until as he rode out of sight. Then she walked with her host back into his home, she graciously admired the paintings he had hung, she enquired about the gardens she could spy through the window. She followed the housekeeper with quiet steps as she was led to her rooms.
She locked the room behind her, and collapsed into a tearful heap on the floor.
oOoOoOo
[1] Posset was a hot drink made from spiced milk curdled with wine or ale.
[2] The Battle of Hondschoote was fought between 6th and 8th September 1793 at Hondschoote, Nord, France, during operations surrounding the Siege of Dunkirk. It resulted in a French victory against the command of Marshal Heinrich Wilhelm von Freytag, part of the Anglo-Hanoverian corps of the Duke of York.
[3] Hensleigh Castle is loosely based on Sissinghurst Castle, near Cranbrook in Kent. The story of the French prisoners and the naming are true. The war Duncannon is referring to is the Seven Years War, a global conflict which took place between 1756 and 1763 (before Fitzwilliam and Duncannon were born).
