I will be traveling for the next week and am uncertain as to whether I will be able to post a chapter next Saturday. My big writing project for the trip shall be to work on revising Part I of VMC, as I hope to self-publish this summer.

For anyone who is wondering, my cat Sarah has been out of her brace for two weeks and is now cleared for all normal activities. She is walking, running and jumping well, albeit still limping while she walks. But her limp has really diminished since she got her brace off. Her patella (knee bone) knitted together well as shown by an x-ray, but it is still too easy to move out of place. We are managing her conservatively as we'd prefer to avoid soft tissue surgery to tighten up the joint. The vet is hopeful that as Sarah goes about her normal cat life and continues to increase her muscle tone in that leg (it atrophied quite a bit in four weeks) that it won't be needed. This resolution is really an answer to prayers, especially when the vet thought she had broken her femur and recommended amputation. I appreciate everyone who reached out with support.

Interlude 3: Colonel Fitzwilliam: Forging a New Path

When I began my journey to Pemberley upon my horse, with only Talbot by my side, I was resigned to my fate, to living upon my cousin's largess for a time. I was aware I had traded one master (the Earl) for another (Fitz).

I had briefly contemplated rejoining the army, imagined it as a third way out of the conundrum of where my loyalty truly lay, but I had not the funds to pay for another commission having cashed out before. And did I really want to serve a general whose one careless order could lead to my death?

While I had long been partially dependent on the Darcys, since Uncle Darcy and the Earl agreed I was the most suitable one to help Fitz, it was different now to be fully dependent upon my cousin for bed and board, especially now that he did not want the help that I could give. Still, I planned to salvage a bit of my dignity in helping Fitz where I could when he would let me. I wished to be of use.

I tried to reassure myself that my condition was only temporary, that being at low water would not last forever. My estate would continue to produce and in time I might be free again. And it was for a good cause, a noble cause, to return to Sylvia her independence, her dignity, her liberty, to be whomever she might still have a chance to be.

I am not usually maudlin or given to deep thoughts, but my time in traveling (under an easy pace for I needed my own mount to take me to Pemberley) gave me much time to contemplate things and that thinking at times turned in strange directions. I found myself considering what I could remember about the letter I wrote to Fitz just before leaving Rosings and then our conversation in my father's house about it. Fitz called me out for being inconsistent in how I treated Sylvia, given that I had written, regarding Miss Elizabeth Bennet, that I had no serious designs in engaging in inappropriate conduct with a gentleman's daughter.

While I honestly could not remember the content of the letter well, I had been deceptive with him. However, as it was almost second nature to act in this manner, to protect myself, I wondered why I could not trust Fitz with the truth after the things he had trusted me with. Would it really be so horrible to tell him?

It is hard when you have a secret that both too many and too few people know. I know my mother and father know, and my two older brothers and perhaps the younger two as well, but no one talks about it. Talbot knows, and whether my teachers knew or not they must have suspected it, but when you are the son of an Earl, people will cover for you to keep in his good graces, especially when that Earl is known to be vengeful.

It was the reason I never went to university, did not go into the law, did not become a member of the clergy, did not study to be a midshipman, and would never seek a lucrative governmental post. Likely it is the reason that I could not advance further in my chosen career in the cavalry. I wonder if my Uncle Darcy knew. It seems likely, but like the others, he never spoke of it.

There is something wrong with me. Not the same something that is wrong with my cousin Fitz or my cousin Anne. Whatever is wrong with them is far worse and much more difficult to hide. There is a reason Anne was always at Rosings and it was not just because of her poor health.

If I had been born a servant, it likely would have never mattered. I would have worked in a nobleman's stables. I understand horses and they understand me. I know the proper feed and what can ruin one. I can read all the signs of whether they have been ridden too long, whether their saddles are a good fit, when one is likely to lose a shoe. I know when they need a good mash or may shy. I have an instinct for these sorts of things. The cavalry was a natural fit in most respects.

Of course, perhaps I never would have become familiar with horses if I were not the son of an Earl, first placed in the saddle when likely only two or three years of age. I do not remember ever not knowing how to ride.

Over the years I have found many ways to cover my affliction and others have assisted me in this deception. I do not know who arranged it, but I was never called on to read aloud while at school. My tutor accompanied me to school and wrote papers when needed and, although I made a mess of all written examinations, I still received undeserved high marks.

I can be quite eloquent when speaking. I know how to charm and how to engage in pleasing conversation. I enjoy people and they enjoy me. I have mastered the art of paying enough attention to everyone that they all feel valued, without singling anyone out enough that real expectations are raised. I am also quite good at memorizing things, names, dates, events and even subjects people raise relating to the books they have read.

I know I am intelligent; of this I have no doubt. So why is it that letters on a page will not stay in their proper place? Why does a "b" sometimes look the same as a "d"? Why does any word containing multiple syllables rearrange itself until I cannot understand it? Why do I still have the same types of difficulty with reading and writing as might afflict a young child (even though this is quite an improvement over what I could understand as a young child)?

I can dictate things decently enough, though my words have not the eloquence that is expected in letter writing. There was a reason I could not remember the letter I wrote to Fitz. I did not write it, Talbot did instead.

Talbot is my former tutor who travels with me in the guise of being my valet (he has hardly any valet-type duties as I learned from my time in the cavalry to conduct my own toilet quite adequately). He helps me substantially. I pay him what he deserves, which means he is highly compensated. And for this price he is my reader and my scribe and keeps this matter (and all the delicate content he is exposed to) to himself. Thus, I have an undeserved reputation for being a highly prudent man as I never sign any legal documents without considering them overnight, at least that is the excuse I make. Of course, it is just an excuse to wait for Talbot to read them to me, to make sure they are proper.

When he writes things for me, I generally tell him what they should contain. Everyone that is familiar with my hand, aside from my signature which is at least my own, is in fact familiar with his.

It was no different when I decided I wished to write to Fitz before I departed Rosings. Of course, I told Talbot about my conversation with Fitz and generally what the letter should contain and even dictated some phrases word-for-word. He also read it to me when it was complete, but I confess that my mind wandered at times. I needed a letter that would apologize and attempt to mend fences and that is just what it did.

Perhaps this affliction of mine is why I, alone of my brothers, tried to understand Fitz and to help him when we were both yet still lads, though I was the elder by a few years. I knew how frustrating not meeting someone's expectations could be. Of struggling at things that came easily for others. I wanted to protect him from that heartache.

What a pair Fitz and I are. Me trying to help him with his social struggles but concealing something from him which would have shown that in certain respects he is far superior to me. I know about his gift in understanding maps, his talents for understanding the written word, the elegant turn of phrases contained in his letters. I have admired them so much that I instructed Talbot to take Fitz's writings as a model for what my own mode of expression should be.

Yet now it is clear to me that though Fitz's affliction is much more obvious, that he is the better man, not perhaps based on nature but because of his doggedness in pursuing what he wants. He has an inner strength, that while only recently exerted to oppose me, will serve him well.

When I told Fitz that he should not marry, or if he married, he should refrain from relations within such marriage, so as to not pass on his affliction, I could have been talking about myself. I have pondered many a time whether this failing in me would also be visited my children. It is a pain I would wish on no one.

Sometimes I feel that not being able to read or write proficiently, or in fact hardly at all, must be a punishment for something, but I cannot conceive of it being a punishment directed at me. Perhaps it is for my father's sins and not for my own? For are not the sins of the father to be visited upon the son? I heard a sermon about that once, I believe the sin continued being punished through the generations, and are we not all punished through eventual death for the original sin in the garden?

For what grievous sin could I, when yet a young child, commit? I remember being mean to a cat once, fighting too roughly with my brothers, taking the Lord's name in vain, lying about eating my turnips and instead secreting them in my handkerchief to dispose of later. Is this not in line with what other young boys would do?

If it is not anything I have done, then God is cruel for no purpose or there is no good and everything is only a matter of chance. Either that or He knew the choices I would make and was punishing me in advance. There is a sort of twisted sense of humor in allowing me to choose a governess as a mistress; if I had picked an illiterate woman, I still could have felt superior.

And yet, now as I have time to think, I wonder if in making Sylvia submit to my desires, I was satisfying a hereto now unrecognized desire to feel superior, to prove that I was more important than she, despite my limitations by subjugating her. Did I feel a twisted sense of justice that a woman of education, who had a purpose and an occupation, was reduced to simply being a vessel for my passions?

Of course, that is not all there was to it. The act itself does not last overly long, and there was much companionship between us, many long talks.

We did not talk with complete frankness, however, by unspoken agreement carefully avoided certain subjects. While we talked many times about my dear sisters and about events from the past, we never talked of the future and I never asked her what her own desires were except for on the least important of matters.

I have heard it said that all wives in watercolors are good actresses, which is why all actresses are whores. It seems borne out if my youngest brother's affairs with them are anything to go by. He gives them jewelry and makes sure he gets ample payment for it.

I wonder, is my Sylvia a good actress? I would like to believe that she genuinely grew to enjoy my ministrations to her body, at least most of the time found our physical interactions pleasing, based on how her body slickened, how she moaned. But I cannot neglect the possibility that she simply reacted as she thought would cement her position, keep me providing for her.

A woman's tenure as a mistress is often quite short (although of course there are some famous ones who are beautiful and skilled at giving delight that they are most sought over, can name their price from a new suitor). Generally, it is up to the man who protects her to decide how long his protection shall last until she is discarded for a younger piece.

What a delightful euphemism that is, to say so and so is under the protection of so and so. Who is he protecting her from? The protector is using the protected for his own selfish reasons, protecting her from the desires of the many so that she need only submit to the desires of the one. Yet who will protect her from him?

I remember the shock on Miss Vaughn's face, the way she sucked in her breath and stared at me when I proposed, "Given all that has transpired, the most sensible thing is that you enter into an arrangement with me." I told her, "If you give yourself into my keeping as my convenient, you shall want for nothing, but likewise you will be Selina Vaughn no more. Instead, you shall be my Sylvia. It would be most prudent to conceal your true identity so that your shame shall die away rather than become more widely known."

I remember how the newly dubbed Sylvia's eyes glistened with unshed tears, and how she slowly nodded as if she knew there was no other choice but did not trust herself to speak. I remember taking her in my father's carriage to a rooming house in a less than desirable area of town, paying in advance for a week's worth of lodgings and meals for Mr. and Mrs. Brown.

Sylvia was passive, standing still and silent as I made such arrangements, holding her small bag which I had not even thought to take and carry for her. As for me, I had no bag at all, had wanted no delay in fetching some of my things from my father's house, had been both eager and scared she might change her mind.

From the winks and nods the proprietor (a grizzled man who had a splendid corporation with a shiny pocket watch chain stretched over it) gave me, it was clear to me that he knew we were certainly no married couple. But our sin must have been a common enough one in that part of town and I fancied he envied the piece I had with me.

I remember escorting Sylvia up squeaky stairs that listed to one side, to our assigned room, locking the door behind me and grabbing her bag from where she clutched it protectively over her chest, tossing it blindly to one side. She made no move to oppose me; she seemed resigned as I kissed and nuzzled her, and unbuttoned her dress, took each item of clothing from her and cast it upon the floor, uncaring of what might become of it.

I remember delighting in the smell of her, seeing all the private parts of her, which had been concealed beneath her shift, her gown, and knowing that I was well within my rights to have anything I might wish from her, for she had given over herself to me. While I wanted to please her, to have her desire me as much as I desired her, that first time it was all about what I wanted, of claiming her in a way she could never take back, of having her take all that I deigned to given.

I tried to be gentle, to not be overeager with a gentlewoman who not long ago had been untouched, but I confess that I did not prepare Sylvia as well as I could have. And if afterwards I felt a bit of remorse, I reminded myself that she had sought me out and pleased or not she had known what to expect, that I had her permission. There was much else I had to do, so I left her alone much of the time, but each time I returned I had her again until she must have been well used to it. I resolved that I certainly would make sure she enjoyed herself more as time went on, and in this I dare say I succeeded.

I remember being eager to rent Sylvia a more suitable place, but it being delayed when I had to take a proposed lease to Talbot to review and then return with it the following day to negotiate more favorable terms and then return the revised version to him to make sure it did what I wanted, before finally being able to sign my name. However, securing Sylvia better quarters was well worth it as her spirits improved when I removed her to her own house, with two servants to tend to her. I remember earning a tentative smile from her when she first saw it and that from that point forward our relationship continued to improve.

Sylvia confided in me years later that she had feared I would keep her in the rooming house forever, that her life had been reduced to the confines of that room. She had been both bored and resigned.

However, as to what she thought of many other things, such as how she felt about being my mistress, I had to guess for Sylvia never told me. I imagine she had some regrets, some misgivings about her altered status in life, but she never shared them with me. She never told me how it felt to hide in the shadows, to be a kept woman secured under my roof, kept on a short leash, bedecked for an audience of one (I had offered to take her to the theatre, to have her dine with my friends, but she declined, reminding me "You gave me a new name that I might not be shamed, but the more people who see me, the more chance it will all be found out.").

There was also much I never shared with her, though, so in that we were equal. I never told her about any women I considered as candidates to become my wife. I never told her how I felt about my father, of serving him. I never told Sylvia my doubts about our arrangement, doubts that came roaring to life when Fitz finally pieced together who she was and berated me for it. Though there were times I cried and sought comfort in her arms based on things my father made me do or sought to make me do, I never told her of the ways I was vulnerable, never shared what was wrong.

Sylvia never cried in my arms; in this she was stronger than me. Perhaps she cried when I was not there, not because I was absent but over how she had descended from a gentlewoman to a kept woman. If I were to blame for such tears, it would not be right for her to cry in my arms.

I never told Sylvia that I could not read or write as I ought, that anything more difficult than the shortest of words became horribly twisted when I tried. I have long endeavored to (and I daresay I succeeded at) concealing my deficit from her. I think she believes my eyes are weak for every time she tried to have me read something I made some complaint such as "That writing is too small" or "Trying to read it gives me a blasted headache."

Many times, I desired to tell her, to see if Sylvia could help me finally learn to read and write as I ought. Many times, I resolved to broach the subject when I saw her next, but inevitably I failed to do so when I was in her presence.

It is odd to think about it, but now that Sylvia is gone, in the privacy of my own thoughts, I can be more objective about why I never broached the subject. I feared too strongly her reaction, to see the surprise and dismay her face would have shown, to be lesser and diminished in her eyes. I never told her because I wanted to be seen as strong, as her savior (as bizarre as that may be) and, thus, I could not be vulnerable in that way.

What if Sylvia had laughed at me? I knew it was unlikely that she would truly react that way, but I could not risk being that vulnerable with her and giving her that power over me. I suppose that means that whatever affection I held for Sylvia was not what a husband would owe a wife; she was not my help meet after all. Additionally, I had no true hope that she could help me when my tutor for all his efforts made very little progress.

When I was discussing with Sylvia what she would want in a husband if we endeavored to arrange a marriage for her, it cut me to the quick when among the requirements she listed was someone who could read and write. Oh, yes, I know she said if possible, so perhaps it was not an absolute requirement, but I who have been her lover for years, who knew her so intimately, would not qualify to marry her. It is strangely ironic that the son of an Earl is not good enough for her. Of course, she did not know she was wounding me by saying that.

There is a kindness in Miss Bennet that makes me think she would not judge me for this or for my conduct with Sylvia. I have done just what she told me to do, I have tried to stop sinning, but am I bearing false witness by representing Talbot's writing as my own? I wish I knew.

At times it feels like I am lying. It is at least deceptive, but does Prinny, the Prince Regent, truly write all his own correspondence? I authorize what Talbot writes by signing it, thereby adopting it as my own, and I pay him for his efforts.

When I let my mind stray to the future, I imagine riding home to my house on my humble estate, of being welcomed home by my bride. It used to be that this future wife vaguely resembled Sylvia (although of course I could not ever marry one who was defiled and while when she was my sisters' governess, I used to imagine making her my bride my father would have never approved of me marrying one who was obliged to take up an occupation).

However, in the last few days that picture changed. Now I see as clear as anything, Miss Bennet being my Mrs. Fitzwilliam, a small mob cap covering a part of her blonde hair, her holding a small blond boy who is my son (for my hair used to be a very fair blond before it eventually darkened into its current sandy color and given her fair hair I imagine all our children would at least start off blond). I dream of being my own man, with the responsibility and privilege of having my own family. But at the heart of it, I picture having her occupy my home and my bed, her being my Jane.

When I picture asking Miss Bennet to be my wife, I imagine confiding in her, telling her of my deficiencies. I imagine gaining her absolution and understanding. But truly, it is not Sylvia I need speak to her about. Men of my station are expected to have a mistress and what is there truly to tell when it is already over long before we could ever come to an understanding, long before I could ever wed her?

No, the secret I truly need to share with her is the one about my fundamental nature, my deficiency when it comes to reading and writing. If being how Fitz is flows through the Fitzwilliam maternal line, is it not equally likely that the seed in my loins might contain its own deficiencies when it comes to how letters and numbers do not behave for me? This is certainly something that a woman I marry for love ought to know.

I would feel no similar obligation to share such with someone who marries me because of whom my father is, who picks me out for his status and influence, who offers herself and her dowry to get it. No, a mercenary woman will get what she deserves and shall do her duty bought and paid for without having a say in what children she breeds for me. But Miss Bennet is no broodmare and if she might take me as I am, then truly I think we might be happy.

I wish I could reach an understanding with Miss Bennet, have her wait until I have the means to support us. But what chance is there that one as lovely and kind as she will not soon be married? Mr. Bingley was a fool to let her go, to go back to a life of trade.

I have, of course, contemplated another option which would not require us to wait for so many years. Perhaps if Fitz succeeds in marrying Miss Elizabeth Bennet, her sister might come to live with them, and if we are all living in the same house, what would be more natural than for us (after an appropriate interval of time) to wed and live with the Darcys while I rebuild my modest fortune.

It was truly this final thought that decided me irrevocably in favor of firmly supporting Fitz and Georgiana and taking their side even not knowing what consequences I will face from defying the Earl (although in truth I believe I would have chosen them anyway, for they truly care for me, are my real family). While a son owes his father every loyalty, the Earl has never repaid my loyalty with any kindness or acknowledgment. I can never recall him doing something for me without a motive of his own.

The Earl funded my career so I could reflect any glory onto him, he provided me the means to support Sylvia because he fancied that me doing so showed how masculine his son (and thereby he) was. I believe he helped to conceal my deficiencies because it would reflect poorly on him. The Earl of Matlock must ever be perfect, his line free from all deficiencies.

Perhaps there might be only a small chance that I might get to marry Miss Bennet, perhaps all my dreams and hopes are for naught. But I know with all certainty that should I follow my father's dictates, that I would be closing and locking the door on any possibility of wedding Miss Bennet. It simply would not be allowed. And until the Earl died, I would always be his to command. But I have chosen to forge a new and different path and to take whatever consequences may come my way.