Rosings, Easter, 1814
Darcy had written to him to beg off the annual visit. They had seen Lady Catherine and Anne at Richard's funeral and he wished to return with his bride to Pemberley to settle into their life together —Fitzwilliam almost thought prize when he was feeling in a really sour mood and perhaps had a little too much to drink. Fitzwilliam assured his cousin that was acceptable; he did not wish, in reality, any close contact. To hear Darcy tell him how Elizabeth had been wooed despite rejecting him once before would be unbearable.
Darcy had come to him, so angry and so frustrated that evening, a year previously. That morning she had hurt her ankle and Fitzwilliam had helped her to the Parsonage. It had required a hand around her waist her shifting form under his arms had taunted him, teased him, and he felt it unfair that Darcy had professed his love for Elizabeth before Fitzwilliam had, that Darcy could not appreciate her nuances, her complexities as well as Fitzwilliam did. Fitzwilliam thought of all their discussions together; never had he found a lady with whom he loved conversing so much. She had such a mind, they thought along similar lines yet were able to disagree in such spirit.
He had told Darcy to be straight-forward with his proposal and not discuss his hesitations but his cousin had veered from the topic at-hand to do just that and she had rejected him. Fitzwilliam was not sure if he should feel happy at his cousin's disappointment but it meant he had a chance and it was that which kept him going on the Peninsula. His duty tore him away from her and he had to sail—he could hardly had proposed that next morning—but she had kept him going in Spain. After Vittoria and Ordal.
They had sat there, the two cousins, late into the night, drinks in hand. Darcy had been most wounded by her aspersion that neither of the cousins had acted as a gentleman her accusation—Darcy had been truly offended by it—that they had somehow cut cards for her. They had settled it between them to write letters and contrive, though it was so against propriety, to get them to her before they left. Fitzwilliam was amazed at the length of his cousin's letter, how much Darcy felt he had to explain himself when Fitzwilliam felt his actions always explained to the world who he was.
Perhaps that was his issue, he had not explained himself enough.
Anne was not well, the trip the previous month to London had taken a toll on her and she was experiencing a natural down-turn of her illness; she was pale and listless and Mrs. Jenkinson fussed over her. Lady Catherine, as was her want, or the way she dealt with her daughter's affliction, would scold Anne to keep her manners and insist that she attend suppers and not claim illness. Fitzwilliam was thankful that Anne had such a devoted companion as Mrs. Jenkinson as much as she was kind of a nobody. Mrs. Jenkinson had no conversation, nothing to add to the long evenings at Rosings but she cared for Anne more than Anne's mother cared for her, and he was heartily thankful that there was someone who cared for Anne, who did see to Anne's health and well-being.
The Collinses were invited over and there would have been cards to play if anyone thought to suggest it though Anne did not have the energy and would often simply sit by the fire. In years past, she had a book or embroidery but this entire trip she sat passive and unfocused and he thought this would be the end of her. And he wished there could be some way to send her to a sunny and helpful place but his aunt would never agree. Anne would someday succumb to her illness and die and be buried at Rosings. Would only he and Mrs. Jenkinson mourn her?