Dunchurch Coombe, February 1818
A letter came from Radbourne—the handwriting was so familiar—and lay waiting for him. A son had been born at last. Francis, Lord Selbourne had made his appearance four days ago now and Radbourne was ecstatic with his progeny.
Fitzwilliam had the same intense sense of happiness at the idea of another nephew, and he wondered how Dunchurch felt. Radbourne and Lady Frederica had not been quick in producing the heir and his father had been aging. Fitzwilliam wondered if he was permitted—had the same freedom as with Clara's brood—to show up unannounced to see baby Francis. He thought it likely it would be a large christening with all the distant cousins called in to stay and to witness.
A fortnight later he was sitting in his carriage traveling to Dunchurch Coombe with the heaviest of hearts, recalling 1814, and that dark winter and the repeated blows he had suffered then. News that Elizabeth had married, that the baby had died, Anna-Sophia had died in childbirth and then suffering through Richard's death. His mother was so correct about loving and grief; they went hand-in-hand.
Dunchurch was dead. He had been sick and held on to see his grandson born.
Fitzwilliam was surprised how effected he was by his father's passing. He grieved that his father was gone. Grieved that his father's life, his era, his leadership at Dunchurch Coombe had come to a close for he had been a good master, a good role model. A good father. He may, he realized, have been different from his father but he found no fault with Dunchurch's treatment or the way that Dunchurch had treated any of them. He should like to do the same, have sons and daughters and raise them the same way his father had raised him.
The windows were dutifully draped in black; the servants wore black armbands as he was met at the door. He sought out his mother without the bother of changing. Family had gathered in the largest, sunniest drawing room though the drapes were drawn against the sunshine. He kissed Lady Clara in greeting as he passed by her but went to wrap his arms around his mother and press a gentle kiss to her cheek.
"I am sorry," and his voice broke.
"Dearest Edward!" and she hugged him back, a gesture so atypical of her. "I miss him so much," her voice caught, "forty years together, such love."
"Mamma," he began, having so much he wanted to say to her.
"Oh! Go away or I really shall cry. Only you affect me, Ned," and she pushed him gently, patting him with those loving hands. He turned away. He understood.
He spoke to his siblings in turn, warmth in their handshakes. Warmth too in his in-law's handshakes. The older Ladbroke children were there, the three oldest boys, permitted below stairs since it was just family right then. He said greetings to John and to Ned, but Jamie was standing by the window with the drapes cracked open peering outside. He looked like a bored, ordinary, eight year old for once.
"Sir James, how do you fare?" asked Fitzwilliam.
Jamie turned slowly. His eyes were red and he blinked a few times which did not work so he drew his hand across his eyes and the tears and then rubbed his nose.
"I miss Grandpapa very much," and he leapt at Fitzwilliam who hugged him close.
"You can cry, that is permitted." And he did act like any boy missing his grandfather and cried on his uncle's waistcoat. Fitzwilliam dabbed at the tears with his handkerchief once they had mostly abated.
"Even Grandmamma cries," said Jamie as they stood there, a little separated from the rest of the family.
"How do you know?" asked his uncle.
"I took her a rose in her dressing room and she was crying," said Jamie.
"That was a very special thing you did for your grandmother. She is very sad. Grandpapa was very special to her. He is…was probably the person she loved the most," explained the uncle.
"And now he is gone." A statement, not a question.
"Yes, now he is gone."
"Do you have someone special, Uncle Ned?"
Fitzwilliam paused, looked into his nephew's blue-gray eyes, another family trait, and had to be honest. "Yes, there is a lady I love very much."
"Would you be sad if she died?" asked his philosopher nephew.
"Very sad. I think I should not be able to bear it," and he choked back tears just thinking of the idea.
"Mamma says Uncle Richard was sad when his lady died," said Jamie.
"He was," answered Fitzwilliam.
"I do not want any of my family to be sad," said Jamie. He looked up at his uncle. Along with his coloring, he showed signs of inheriting the same height and form as his uncles Ned and Everard. His father, Ladbroke, was a half a head shorter. "I wish there was a way to cheer them up."
"I think the flower you gave to Grandmamma was an excellent idea, Sir James," said Fitzwilliam.
"But roses are only for ladies, for Grandmamma, Mamma and Aunt Susanna. I cannot give Uncle Everard a flower," argued James.
"He has a new baby, his son. I believe that will help to cheer him up, in time," added Fitzwilliam.
"What about you, Uncle Ned? Do you have a son to bring you cheer?" Asked Jamie.
Fitzwilliam choked then. Such an innocent question, or perhaps a probing one.
"No Jamie. I do not have a son."
"Then I shall cheer you up," said the young knight with conviction.
"I thank you," said the old, sad soldier. "I should welcome it, especially from you."