Obligation and Desire

by DJ Clawson

Story 10 of the series. Updated about twice a week.

Sometimes I go deeper into my thoughts on certain chapters on the message board for this series. Check it out by deleting the spaces:

laughingman . web . aplus . net / phpbb / ? f=23&t=57

Sorry for the delay on this chapter. FFnet's uploader was down for a day or two.

Chapter 37 - Christmas in Winter

As Christmas approached, Alison, William, and Edward were all put to bed and left with their nurses, and the adults gathered in their church clothing. The Darcy family would not lapse in their attendance, including young mothers. Even Mr. Bennet, bundled against the weather, would venture out.

"What can we expect for a sermon, do you think?" Mr. Franklin asked as he and Geoffrey helped themselves to pre-holiday festival glasses of port.

"I don't know. He might take a night off from extolling the virtues of a loyal wife in favor of the Virgin Mary, who did not even sleep with her husband," Geoffrey said. "He's still mad that his wife left him."

"Is there anything to be done?"

"He's an old man, but that's the extent of what we can do." He touched his glass with Saul's. "Happy Christmas."

"Happy Christmas."

The Darcy family appeared in force, joining the Bingleys on the way and arriving with appropriate time for seating. Of course the locals wanted nothing more than to talk with the mother of the heir to Pemberley – second in line, technically – but it was too crowded to satisfy everyone. She waved at the back rows of faces she recognized from town, Master Hyuu's prayer beads wrapped around her wrist, as they always were. They took their seats up front and the services began.

The old Vicar did change his tone for the very holy night, focusing instead on the innocence of the child Christ, and Georgie nudged her husband as his eyes began to close. "You're not old enough to nod off." To her right, in the next aisle, her father was asleep and her mother had given up attempts to wake him. Uncle Darcy was barely awake himself, and that was saying something. George Wickham just looked down at his book of psalms and avoided anyone's eyes.

It was far too late and too cold for conversation outside the church, so after the service they said their goodbyes and climbed into their respective carriages. The sky was clear and the air crisp, but there was still some snow on the ground from the days before. By the time they were home, undressed, and in bed, William was awake and hungry. Geoffrey waited for his wife to join him before they finally fell asleep, the sky already brightening.

"Happy Christmas!"

Geoffrey just laughed as Georgie put her arm over her head to block the light. "Knocking! What did I say about knocking?"

"I forget the Japanese for Christmas."

"Because there is no Japanese for Christmas," Geoffrey said.

"Oh. Happy Christmas!" Alison climbed up on the bed and squeezed between them. "Did you tell William?"

"Tell him what?"

"That it's Christmas?"

"No. William's a baby. He doesn't care," Georgie grumbled. "Honey, even the baby is asleep right now."

"You're not! You're talking to me."

"Happy Christmas, darling."

"Don't encourage her."

Not that it could be helped. Alison would have woken the whole house if they hadn't stopped her by giving her their own presents. This distracted her long enough to wake her brother, who had only one desire, and that was to be fed and rocked back to sleep by his mother.

Geoffrey rose and rang for Mr. Reynolds, who was already up and waiting for him. "Not many people are up yet, sir."

"I imagine. Happy Christmas, Reynolds."

"Happy Christmas, Mr. Darcy."

The dining room was empty. Geoffrey snatched a bun off the tray and looked in the drawing room, then the library, where he found George going through one of the shelves. "George. Happy Christmas."

"Happy Christmas, Geoffrey." He stood up straight. "I was just – replacing one of your wife's books on uhm – what is it." He looked at the cover. "Budoism."

"Buddhism."

"Yes. Didn't understand a word."

"Neither do I."

George put the book back in its place. "You put up with a lot."

"It's more complex than that, but more rewarding," Geoffrey replied. "So what of this mysterious Miss Turner?"

His cousin didn't look at him, but kept thumbing through the bookshelves. He must have memorized them long ago, but he didn't want to make eye contact. "What about her? She's not so mysterious."

"You haven't said a word."

"She's intelligent, witty, and attractive. She engages me in conversation even when I'm an ass in my responses. Either she knows I don't mean it or she just thinks the best of everyone, but I don't think it's the latter – it's not in her nature. I can think of no one, beyond Uncle Grégoire, who has that level of compassion for the human race."

"You are very cynical, but perhaps that doesn't need stating. If she even remotely understands you, then you're a fool not to marry her."

"Ah. But as you said, it's more complex than that."

"I didn't say you should go lightly into it, but when do you go lightly into anything? So, what are you going to do?"

George turned to him and sighed. "After the physician's exam, I'll go to her mother for permission to court her. I'm putting it off. It's not going to be easy. There's a serious complication."

"What is it?"

"Her mother was seduced by my father."

Geoffrey laughed. "You can't be serious." But he looked at George's face and already knew the answer. "How do you know?"

"Miss Turner recognized my name. Apparently her mother uses 'George Wickham' as the stand-in name for every rake and ravisher out there. Long before she was married, Mrs. Turner was a tradesman's daughter in Newcastle."

"My G-d, that's a bit of luck, isn't it? What are the chances of that?"

"High enough." George went to the decanter on the stand, and poured himself a small amount in a glass. "Her mother doesn't know my name yet."

"She can't hold it against you."

"All she has to do is look at me."

"Maybe she won't remember what he looked like. It was over twenty years ago!"

"Mr. Turner – Eliza's beau – recommended I put it off for as long as possible."

Geoffrey smiled for him, for some encouragement. "Dr. Wickham does sound better than Mr. Wickham."

"Let's hope so."

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With so few young children, there were not many receivers of presents. Gifts to Eliza and Charles for their birthday were more sophisticated and privately given. They were trying to hold back on Alison, who was only a week from her birthday. William was given either clothing or gifts that he proceeded to try to put in his mouth, often without much success if they were placed out of his reach. Edward had more, and showed some interest in the device the Darcys bought to hang over his cradle, trying to grab the rotating wooden stars, and they called it a victory and sat down for the Christmas meal. Alison was invited, and spent it perched on three massive volumes on the chair between her parents. William sat on Mr. Bennet's lap; the man hardly ate anything anymore, proclaiming he'd lost his taste with his sense of smell long ago, and he was consumed in holding his youngest grandson. "That Mrs. Bennet could see you."

Though it was difficult for anyone to follow any one conversation or even for Darcy or Elizabeth to trade words across the massive table, they managed and there were a few toasts, but nothing excessive, especially considering how early it was. They would not be hungry for dinner, leaving the servants to their own below-stairs revelry. It was Christmas, after all.

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1832 arrived with a cold blast of air that had even the more compliant guests complaining; Mr. Bennet, despite years of the North's harsh weather, never seemed to be free of the chill.

On Alison's fifth birthday they woke to half a foot of snow, fallen over the course of the night and still falling. This distracted her long enough to allow them to get the presents out, and it was like Christmas all over again for one person. Aside from the standard toys and clothing, the most exceptional gift came from her godfather. Charles Bingley III gave her a new child's kimono – a real one, not a fake. Where he'd gotten one on short notice, they had no idea, but it was purple and red and came with a blue obi and she wanted to wear it right away, and it took both of her parents physically carrying her out of the room to keep her from changing right there in the drawing room. She wore it for the rest of the day and night, having outgrown most of her others, and stayed by her uncle's side for the rest of the day.

Though George was eager to be back in London, it was obvious that it was not going to be possible until the roads were cleared, and they would not be, so he settled in, as did the Franklins. They did clear a path to Kirkland, so the families could go back and forth with ease, but had to re-carve it with each new snowfall.

At last there was a break, and they were told the roads would be ready. The Franklins began to pack, wanting to be back in London with George.

********************************************

As for George, he packed quickly and spent his hours studying. He knew he should expect to pass, and had a fair idea of what would be asked and what answers to give to appease the board, but there were charts that had to be memorized and he didn't want anything escaping him. He stayed up late, either in his room or the study, which his uncle let him use. On more than one occasion, he fell asleep with his head on the book, waking only at the sound of the grandfather clock.

He looked up. Twelve chimes - midnight. Only one candle was still lit and with the door closed, perhaps no one knew he was still in the room. The fire had died down and it was cold in the room. Shivering, he closed his book and rose, crossing the empty hallway to the library, where it was even colder. There the candles were still lit, and as he put the book away, he saw a pair of glasses and half-full wine glass on the stand. George walked around the armchair. "Grandfather," he said loudly, but Mr. Bennet did not wake. "Come. I'll take you to bed, if I can still lift you." But he touched him, and still he did not wake. The room was cold, Mr. Bennet was cold, his head drooping down to one side with a sly smile across his face. "Grandfather?" He took his hand, and finding no warmth, held his finger down on the wrist. There was no response, no beating of a pulse. His chest was not rising from breath.

Mr. Bennet was dead.

********************************************

George raced up the stairs so fast he was breathing heavily when he reached the door to the master bedroom. Finding it empty, he was approached by a lone servant carrying a candlestick. "I have to find Uncle Darcy."

"The mistress' chambers, sir. But he's likely – "

"He needs to be woken." He proceeded immediately to the door, and banged long and hard until it was opened.

His uncle stood with a hastily added robe over his nightshirt. He could read the anxiety on George's face. "What is it?"

"Grandfather Bennet is dead."

He had never seen his uncle so pale, and yet, he did not look weak, or frightened. Sadness came with the same authority that the master of Pemberley had in every other part of his life. "Are you sure?"

"It is my professional opinion."

"Where is he? Has he been disturbed?"

"I found him in the library. He must have died in his sleep."

Darcy rubbed his forehead. "Let me tell Elizabeth, and we'll come down. Don't tell anyone else yet."

"I won't."

Darcy closed the door, and though he was at a loss as to what to do, George Wickham was very sure of one thing: he did not want to be on the other side of that door.

********************************************

Elizabeth Darcy woke with her husband's gentle voice. "Lizzy." He was concerned, but he was almost always concerned. She opened her eyes, pulling herself away from a strange dream about two black crows that followed her around, and looked up. Her husband was in his dressing robe, and holding a candlestick. He set it down and took his place beside her, but did not lie down. "Are you awake?"

"What is it? One of the children?" She knew it wasn't true; nothing could hurt her precious babies, all of them, or she would know, and yet even the concept put ice in her veins. As if it wasn't cold enough. Darcy spoke with care, which meant slowly, and even more slowly when he wanted to be gentle, so she beat him to it. "My father."

"George found him in the library. He passed in his sleep." He took her hand, and held it with both of his, so much larger than her slender fingers, knotted with age. "I'm sorry, Elizabeth."

She could only think of one thing to keep away the sadness. "I want to see him." Maybe it wasn't true, and the crows were still there, and she was still dreaming. She could not delude herself for that long.

Darcy helped her out of bed, his hands almost caressing her, hugging her body to his. He didn't call a servant, but found a heavy robe and slippers for her. It was too late and too sudden for a bonnet or even hairpins. He guided her out, and they descended the stairs together.

There was one servant lighting the candles, and George stood by the door. He bowed. "Aunt Darcy. Uncle Darcy."

"George." She hugged him. Poor George, to make the horrible discovery, but she held herself back. She needed to prepare herself. "You're sure?"

"You should call for a real doctor, but yes."

Darcy did not take the lead. He walked beside her, as slowly as she wanted to go, as they rounded the armchair by the now-lit fire. Mr. Bennet looked asleep, his head to one side. His glasses were on the stand, on top of the book he was reading, and there was still wine in his glass. And he was smiling. "Papa," she whimpered, and Darcy touched his neck, beneath the ear. Frowning, he unbuttoned the top button of Mr. Bennet's vest and then shirt, and put his hand to his chest. He stood there for a moment before buttoning him up again and looking to his wife. "Papa!" she cried, and fell sobbing into her husband's arms. "No! No, I'm not ready! I thought I was going to be ready – "

"No one is ready," Darcy said, his words so soft, like silk. He held her and waited, and when she was ready, he walked her away, into the drawing room, and began giving the servant orders.

She cried and cried and was lost to the people around her. "Mama," Anne said, from nowhere, and held her.

"He was still smiling," Elizabeth said. "Jane."

"She's been sent for," her son assured her. So Geoffrey was up too. How long had she been crying? Her head already hurt and she still had more tears.

"Aunt Darcy." Georgie embraced her, and Elizabeth looked over her shoulder to Darcy, who was seated at the writing desk, already penning letters. Yes, there was so much to do, and yet she couldn't imagine doing it. She was where she stood and could move nowhere; she couldn't even stand without someone holding her up. She had brief moments where the tears stop, and she was distracted by all the activity around her, and people calling her name and kissing her and telling her they loved her, and then she would remember why, and it would begin again.

Jane arrived somewhere in that terrible blur. She was dressed hastily, Bingley beside her. Both of them had red eyes. "Lizzy."

"Jane." Elizabeth hugged her with all of her remaining strength, so quickly slipping away from her. "He was smiling. I saw him; he was smiling. You remember – he sits – he would sit in that chair – he loved to sit in that chair and read and he had a book – " But she could say no more.

"Mrs. Darcy," Bingley bowed to her. I'm sorry for your loss."

It was his loss too, she realized. This was her Papa, who had at first refused to meet him to taunt her mother, then did it because it was the right thing to do for Jane, then mocked them all about dashed expectations, then welcomed him as a son-in-law. Charles Bingley II was the first man to approach Mr. Bennet for a daughter's hand in marriage, and the first man to whom he gave his consent. He put up with their mother's hollering and invading his life without a single complaint. He helped put dirt on the same mother's grave, and stood beside Mr. Bennet at the funeral. And now he would put earth on the grave of the man who had treated him like a son, just as Elizabeth's own husband would – and Mr. Townsend, and Dr. Bertrand, and maybe even Mr. Bradley.

Dr. Dunhill arrived despite the cold and the snow, and pronounced Mr. Edmund Bennet, a man of four and eighty years, dead of natural causes.

Through the mist of her tears, Elizabeth saw a little red figure walking around. "Alison." She sat down to be closer to her. Alison was pacing, unable to connect to what had happened. "What do you have there?"

Alison opened her hands to reveal a pocket watch. "Grangran gave it to me. He told me how to wind it."

She recognized the watch. "For your birthday?"

Alison shook her head. "Yesterday." She wound it. "It still ticks!"

Elizabeth tried to smile, and closed Alison's hands over the watch. "So it does."

... Next Chapter - Mr. Bennet of Longbourn