Chapter 37

Longbourn, Hertfordshire

Some years ago, when Mr. Bennet had found the stairs of his home a struggle, they had made over the back parlour as a bedroom, and he had taken up residence there. As a result, the world he inhabited had shrunk largely to that room and the nearby library, with occasional forays into the dining and drawing rooms.

Kitty's world had shrunk as well. She was still invited to dinners and parties within the neighbourhood, and walked in the garden when the weather was fine, but most days she spent the bulk of her time in the library with her father, curled up on the chair she had claimed as her own and reading, as she was presently.

She had been content with her life before she left for Derbyshire, and she was content now. Aside from that awful, frightening night and the worrisome day that followed, her stay at Pemberley had allowed her far more time in General Fitzwilliam's company than she had hoped for, and she was grateful. She could not have asked for more, save word that he continued to improve, and this had thankfully come from Georgiana. The Colbournes and little Julia had travelled to Willicot for the wedding of the general's batman and a Pemberley maid, wishing to represent that house on the latter's behalf since the Darcys were still in Cornwall. Her cousin was improving steadily, Georgiana wrote, although she suspected he was still in more pain than he let on.

He was the sort who would be stoic, was Kitty's admiring reaction to this intelligence. Yet Georgiana reassured that he was well past any danger, and so Kitty was content, for the only thing that occasionally troubled her equanimity was the memory of that night, which crept up on her and surprised her when she was least expecting it. Those minutes – those awful, awful minutes! – when she had been alone and attempting to aid him, afraid he would slip away at any moment.

But no. He was alive and would be well, and Kitty would be content.

Hingston came in with the post, several letters for papa and one for Kitty, from Lizzy. Kitty took hers up eagerly and opened it – she had greatly enjoyed Lizzy's descriptions of the Cornish coast, and she settled back into her seat with pleasure to read this latest account of coves and beaches and village life.

It took her some time, therefore, to comprehend that one of her father's letters was causing him a tremendous amount of mirth. Finally, she realised he was chuckling heartily, and when she looked up, she found he was wiping a tear from his eye.

"Oh, Kitty, that your mother could have lived to see this day. There would have been no peace for either of us, but it would have been the crowning achievement of her life. Let us hope wherever she is, she is watching just now."

"Papa, whatever do you mean?"

"Here, you had better read this." He handed her a letter with a wry smile. It was still sealed, and Kitty presumed it had been enclosed within the one he still held in his other hand.

Perplexed and curious, she opened it to read,

Dear Miss Bennet,

I fear when last we spoke, I was vague about my intentions. This is in part because I was not entirely sure of them myself, and in part because I had intended to make a much quicker recovery than I have managed, so that I might court you properly. Unfortunately, I have found limited success in willing myself to better health. It does improve, but at a frustrating pace.

Let us spend no more time on my health, however. Until it is as I wish it to be, the less said of it, the better.

I do know my own intentions, now. I have missed you terribly. Perhaps I should not have left off speaking of my health. I do believe if I could hear your sweet voice reading to me once more, it would brighten my spirits greatly, and brighter spirits are surely an aid to faster healing, are they not?

I do not simply want you at Willicot to read to me, however. My affections for you are deep, and certain looks, certain aspects of your manner towards me at Pemberley, have led me to believe they are returned. If they are not, please inform me thus and I will not speak on this subject again. I would not want to make awkwardness for you within your family.

If they are returned, even in some little way, I would like to invite you to Willicot at your earliest convenience. Things between us may be whatever you wish them to be. If you will come for a courtship, I will be grateful to you for making the journey when I cannot. I would be still happier, though, if you will come to me as a betrothed. Will you marry me? I will ask the question again properly if I can only see you, but I want to be sure you know that is the question I wish to ask.

Please come to me. Whomever from your family is needed to bring this about is most welcome at Willicot as well.

Your most loving and obedient servant,

HENRY

What else could her response be to such a missive, but a sob so forceful it shook her entire being? From this beginning, Kitty bent over herself, clutching the letter and crying, her emotions such a swirl of shock, love, fear, and hope that she could never settle on one for more than a moment. She had never – ever – expected that General Fitzwilliam could return her affections, never considered that he might actually ask the question within this letter. Blinking, she pulled the letter back open and read that question again, to make sure she had not imagined it.

No, there it was. Will you marry me? Written in a strong, masculine hand that gave no hint of the qualms about his health that he had expressed elsewhere.

"Kitty, my dear – Kitty – "

Mr. Bennet had risen from his place behind the desk and come to kneel beside her. This renewed Kitty's tears – it was no little effort for him to do so, with his aged knees.

"Are these tears of happiness, my child?"

"I do not know – mostly – perhaps – not entirely. I am so – so confused."

"Kitty, you are not required to marry him. Even if your mother was still alive, I would not force you to marry just to become a countess."

"Oh – oh – a countess. I did not think of that." Kitty sobbed again.

"It does you credit that it was not immediately upon your mind, Kitty, and it does General Fitzwilliam credit that it did not form part of his letter. But if that was not your concern, I must wonder what was. Do you have any affections at all for General Fitzwilliam?"

Kitty bowed her head. "Papa, I have been in love with him since the first day I saw him."

"Oh – I understand." He patted her hand. "That was some years ago, was it not? You did not think your affections would ever be returned, and now they are, and change looms before you."

"Yes, I – I think that is it. I never thought I would actually have a chance to become his wife and now – now that also means becoming a countess someday. I was not formed for that, papa."

"Still, I believe you could do it, if you wished to. General Fitzwilliam is a good man – he would not ask more of you than you are capable of, and you would do well to remember that until recently, he had no expectations that his wife should be a countess, either."

"What of you, though, papa? I cannot leave you."

"I would manage well enough without you if it was required for your happiness, my child. You have given me many years of comfort, and it is no more than you are due. However, it seems your lover intends to give me still greater comforts. If you accept his hand, he invites me to come and live at Willicot, along with his own father. It would satisfy me very well, to spend the remainder of my days exploring a new library and installing some man here to see to the running of Longbourn. It will be a difficult journey, no doubt, and so I only wish to make it once. If you are not sure of what you wish to do, let us write to the Bingleys and see if they will accompany you to Willicot. If you are sure, then let us go together to Derbyshire."

Kitty passed a fitful night, thinking of what her father had said, reading General Fitzwilliam's letter again and again, fretting over whether she had it within herself to be a countess. Finally, as the grey light was shifting to pink in promise of the sun's arrival, she came to the realisation that if she did not seize her heart's desire, she would never forgive herself. Yes, it was a change – a tremendous change – but what, truly, could she have to fear in marrying an honourable man? A man who had already made excellent provisions for the care of her father, the one legitimate obstacle that might have prevented their marrying.

And thus, when she came down for the tray of cake and tea in the library that comprised their breakfasts at Longbourn, she smiled to her father and said, "Papa, I would like for you to go north with me."

"I had hoped you would say that, my dear," was his response, accompanied with a wry smile. "The library at Willicot is said to have 20,000 volumes."

Despite Mr. Bennet's enthusiasm, it was still a difficult journey for him. They broke it up into small stages, but after their second night on the road, Kitty began wondering if it would have been better to press on through in as few nights as possible. For despite her writing to bespeak their rooms in advance, the Angel in Maidwell had not been able to give them anything below the second storey, and that second storey up a narrow, winding staircase from the first, a staircase Mr. Bennet fell down, on his way to breakfast the next morning.

Mr. Bennet did not like to be inconvenienced, and still less did he like the embarrassment of inconveniencing anyone else, so although thankfully there seemed to be no permanent harm done, managing this and all that followed left Kitty in a fractious, worried temper, one that never fully abated before they reached Derbyshire.

It was late in the evening by the time they arrived at Willicot, and Kitty spared the house but a brief glance, even though she had never seen it before. Her temper was soothed as soon as she saw General Fitzwilliam on the front step, with a look upon his countenance that she would certainly have misinterpreted, before receiving his letter.

Then that smart-looking batman of his was beside the carriage, giving papa a strong arm to lean on as he came out, and promising, "We've a nice room ready for you, sir, here on the ground floor just by the library."

"Perfect, perfect," murmured Mr. Bennet, wearily. "I do not intend to climb another flight of stairs again in my life, if I can help it."

Kitty watched their progress inside for some moments, and then approached the general. He smiled to her, a particular smile, and while she had thought she was ready for such a thing, she was not. Her knees grew weak and she staggered across the gravel until she found a column that could support her.

"Miss Bennet!" General Fitzwilliam closed the distance to her in long strides, and Kitty comprehended the pain it cost him to do so.

"Please – please do not injure yourself on my account!" she cried.

In response, he pulled her hand from the pillar, and clasped it. "Are you well, Miss Bennet?"

More well than you, she thought but did not say, nodding silently instead.

She had forgotten her gloves in the carriage, and as he ran his thumb over her knuckles, she feared she was growing nearer to swooning rather than farther. He gazed into her eyes. "Are you ready for the question I wished to ask you, or is this to be a courtship?"

Kitty could hardly think sufficiently to answer him, so overwhelmed was she.

"I – I am ready," said she, haltingly, "but this has all been rather much."

"Of course – of course, here, come with me." He withdrew his hand and offered his arm to her, but Kitty took it delicately, not wishing to be a burden, a burden that might add to his pains. They entered an ancient great hall, and then he led her through several finely appointed rooms to a quiet little ante-room.

Kitty sat and exhaled, but she had no time for relief. Entering behind her, he grimaced and went down on one knee before her.

"No – no – please – do not injure yourself!" she cried.

"Well, then answer me quickly, my dear, so I can get back up. Will you marry me?"

"Yes – yes!"

With visible effort, he rose and then clasped her hands. Kitty, thinking neither of them ought to remain standing, urged him towards a pair of chairs. Only when they were seated could she fully rejoice in his soft smile, the firm clasp of his hands. She realised she was weeping when she felt a tear run down her cheek, and moments later he had released one of her hands to wipe it away.

"I believe I must confess something to you," she whispered, dropping her eyes to her lap. "My affections – my affections are of very long standing."

Gently, he traced his fingertips along her cheek until they reached her chin, tilting her head up until she met his eyes again. "How did I never notice, my dear? It must have been torturous, for you to be in my presence."

"No – never. It always pleased me to be in your presence. I did not have such hopes as you just fulfilled – perhaps I did in the very beginning, when I was a silly girl who thought the idea of marrying a red coat and following the drum the most romantic thing possible."

"A red coat? You mean to tell me they go back that far?"

Sheepishly, Kitty nodded.

"My own are of newer origins – I believe my heart was certain from the moment I awoke to see you looking at me with such concern, although it took my mind longer to be sure. But I promise I will do my best to catch you up. When would you wish to be married?"

"I would want my sisters to attend – and Georgiana."

"We shall need to see when we can recall the Darcys from Cornwall, then, but I will certainly want your brother-in-law to stand up with me, so our waiting shall be mutual."

"Do we not need to wait until you are out of mourning for your brother, as well?"

He sighed, and withdrew his hands, Kitty watching the turn of his countenance with concern. "There is something I should have told you before I asked you to marry me. It was not something I could put in a letter, and I must ask for your silence on the matter even if it changes your response."

"Nothing could change my response!" cried Kitty.

"Please, let me tell you, before you say so. You deserve to understand the family you would marry into. You were little acquainted with my brother, I believe?"

"I knew of him by reputation, although I never met him."

"I am glad you were never exposed to his presence. I will just say that he was a wastrel, and more rotten at his heart than I realised. Some years ago, my father determined to change his will, to leave me all that was not entailed – including this estate. My brother learned of this."

Kitty gasped. "It was him! He was the one who stabbed you."

"Yes. He betrayed his actions to my father, and my father acted as judge, jury, and executioner. So I will inherit this earldom because the current earl eliminated his heir."

"That does not change my mind, and I intend to try to soothe your own guilt over it as much as I can. He nearly killed the man I love, and if justice was done quietly, still it was done. You have done nothing wrong." Kitty reached for his hands and took them back up, heartened by his reassuring response when she squeezed them.

"I will do my very best to catch you up as quickly as I can, my dear. You deserve nothing less," he murmured. "As to how my brother's death impacts our own timing, it should not – I may wed in half-mourning. So it only remains for us to write and see if we cannot convince the Darcys to come home."

That was not all that remained, but although Henry should have realised what obstacle should appear before them, he had not stopped to contemplate such things. He and Kitty continued on in blissful happiness in the days after their engagement was established: writing letters, making plans, seeing Mr. Bennet settled into his bedchamber and the library. The widow of the former local vicar, Mrs. Royston, was brought to stay at the house to lend respectability to the Bennets' visit, but as she and their fathers were much in agreement that the couple were too responsible to get up to much in the way of trouble, her chaperonage was loose and they endeavoured to deserve her trust.

Although he spent most of his time in the company of his betrothed, Henry still went on staid daily rides with his father, aware that the number of these left was finite. Everything was finite, of course, but he should have many years together with his wife, while Henry feared the time his father had left was nearer measured in months.

On this day, their horses were walking up the hill past the Kents's cottage, and when they crested the rise they came to a sight that had always made Henry's heart soar, but touched him more particularly now that it was to be his demesne: dear old Willicot, standing her staunch guard over the valley, a sight that had pleased centuries' worth of Fitzwilliams. But today, there was a carriage coming up the drive, and as Henry squinted, his stomach lurched as he realised it was the de Bourgh post-chaise.

"No – no," he stated. "I will not let aunt Catherine plague her. Papa, I must – I must get to Willicot as quickly as I can. Will you be well, to walk back on Raven alone?"

"Is that Cathy's carriage?" papa asked, squinting. He sighed. "I should have known she would come to make trouble. Yes, Henry, go on at a faster pace, if you can, but pray do not hurt yourself. Cathy wields her weapons well, but they are still only words. You have known worse."

Henry nodded, and urged Lucy forward. She was hesitant at first, as though she did not trust that he was capable of what he asked for, but within a few strides her confidence in him grew. They cantered forward as they had in many a battle, Henry so focused on what lay ahead that he took but a moment to rejoice in how comfortable it felt to move at this pace, his body still stiff but not at all in pain. He forced himself to dismount carefully, when they reached the entrance to the house. Aunt Catherine's carriage was empty, at present a swarm of servants seeing to her baggage. Henry told them to halt what they were about, a command that was received with relief on the part of the Willicot servants, and terror on the countenances of Lady Catherine's lackeys.

Kent came running out to him, saying, "Sir, she's gone towards the library. Greene showed her to the drawing-room and asked her to wait, but she said she wouldn't be made to wait in the house she grew up in."

Henry huffed. "I was afraid of that. Will you come with me? I may have need of your assistance."

"Of course."

"Into the breach again, Kent. As my father reminded me, the only weapons my aunt wields are words. She'll have sharpened them during the drive here, though."

Henry's prediction proved right – disturbingly right. He could hear the sound of his aunt's haranguing long before he reached the library, and it was abundantly clear just who she was haranguing. Nothing was said in response to her attacks, and it was with a lurch of concern and anger in his belly that Henry entered the library. His eyes searched the room until they found Kitty, sitting in a fine, elegant posture but with tears glistening in her eyes. To his credit, Mr. Bennet was watching the scene before him with concern rather than amusement, but nor was he saying anything in his daughter's defence. Mrs. Royston watched with the trepidation of one who did not see it as her role to intervene and yet saw that intervention was necessary. And then there was Lady Catherine, pounding her walking stick on the ground as she spoke, saying,

"Tell me this moment, are you engaged to Viscount Ashbourne?"

Kitty saw him at that moment, and her expression was such as it might have been had he galloped in on Lucinda's back, sabre drawn. Henry was struck, then, with a particular adoration for her, invigorated by the thought that she desired his protection and angry that it was required. This, certainly, formed his response to aunt Catherine, for he bellowed,

"Stop this at once, aunt! I will not see Miss Bennet treated ill."

"And why, Henry? What is Miss Bennet to you but a distant connexion by marriage?"

"Miss Bennet is my betrothed."

"Impossible! You are engaged to Anne. You cannot marry another."

This was unexpected, and yet unsurprising, coming from aunt Catherine. "I am no such thing. I have offered for one lady and one lady only, and she is Miss Bennet."

"It was arranged between your brother and myself, that he was going to marry Anne. As she was betrothed to Viscount Ashbourne, and you are now Viscount Ashbourne, you are engaged to Anne."

"Aunt Catherine, that is so absurd it hardly merits a response."

"You need not respond, you merely need to do your duty towards Anne, a duty, I might add, that is for the best as regards your family. By marrying Anne, you add Rosings to the other Sudbury estates. What does Miss Bennet have to offer you, but some meagre dowry and an even more meagre set of accomplishments. I will not see another betrothal of Anne's lost to one of those Bennet chits."

"You have said quite enough, aunt Catherine. I will not listen to this slander of the woman I love, and you might consider that Miss Bennet will outrank you within our family from the day of her marriage. It would behove you to treat her with respect."

"Respect! You think I will treat her with respect? Do you think I will stand by to watch that girl claim my mother's title? I will not. This is not to be borne, Henry!"

"It will not be borne by you, Cathy, but I must remind you that I am still the head of this family, as will Henry be when he succeeds me," stated papa, stumping in as fast as he could manage. Henry was grateful to him even as he realised that the day would come soon when he would not have papa, to stand behind him. He would have papa's title, of course, but that was not nearly the same as the man who held it now.

"You approve of this, George? You approve of your son marrying this chit of a girl when he could have Rosings?"

"I approve of him marrying for love, as I told him he should, and as I have come to know Miss Bennet, I think her very well suited for him."

Lady Catherine laughed, then, a dark, awful laugh that made both Henry and his betrothed swallow hard.

"Marry for love? That is the most nonsensical thing I have ever heard, George. Marry for love? We do not marry for love. Our kind do not marry for love."

Her sister's son had certainly married for love, but Henry knew better than to present this evidence.

"That is enough, Cathy. You were not invited to this house and I must ask that you leave, now," stated papa. "Whatever purpose you hoped to achieve has failed. I know my son, and he shall not deviate from his course."

"I shall not leave – I have come here from Kent, as you must know. I require hospitality."

"You may stay in the lodge, if you wish, but you shall not stay here and you shall not dine with us."

"I most certainly will stay here and dine with you! You mean to turn me away? Turn me away from the house of my birth?"

"You have insulted the future mistress of this house, and you cannot expect hospitality after that, Cathy. You should be thankful that I am even allowing you the lodge. When Henry is the earl it would certainly be understandable if he were not so forgiving. Henry, I believe it is past time for you and Mr. Kent to see your aunt to her carriage."

Some persons might have recognised they were beaten and gone to their carriage in sedate shame. Aunt Catherine was not one of those persons. Complaining the entire time, and most particularly berating Henry for not doing his duty, she was led thither by Henry and Kent, and even once a stern look from Henry had promised she should be pushed inside the post-chaise if she would not go willingly, still she seemed inclined to fight. She did go, though, and Henry turned back towards the house, longing to comfort his betrothed.

Her eyes were still shining, when he returned to the library. She cast him a worried look, and Henry loathed what had prompted it.

"Will you take a turn in the courtyard with me, Miss Bennet?"

She bit her lip and nodded. Offering his arm, Henry noted the seeming tremble of her hand as she took it.

The stillness of the courtyard was a balm to Henry's upset, and he hoped to hers as well. The fountain was working again – one of Kent's projects – and the gentle sound of water was still more soothing.

"I am so sorry – I do not know what I should have done, but I should have done something," Kitty burst out. "I – I did not know whether I should tell her we were betrothed or not."

"Oh – oh, Kitty, is this what you worry about? After you were berated and abused so? I did not expect you to pick my aunt up and throw her out of the house any more than I did Caroline Bingley."

She attempted to smile and failed. Henry regretted attempting to bring back that old jest – clearly his aunt had wounded her in a way Caroline Bingley could not.

"My dear, my aunt's behaviour was not that of anyone in polite society. I have no expectations that you should know how to respond to such rudeness. It is I who should apologise that my family put you in such a situation."

"I – I should have known what to say, though. Jane would have said something serene and polite. Lizzy would have given her what-for, I am sure. I couldn't even manage to say anything. You would be right, to be displeased at realising you are marrying such a timid mouse."

"Please do not worry over that. Anything you said would have just added fuel to the fire." He clasped her hand and brought it to his lips. "I love you, not Jane or Lizzy. I was displeased – more than that, I was angry. But all of my anger was for my aunt, to see the woman I love so abused."

She smiled slightly. "I was – I was so grateful to you, when you came in to defend me. No one has ever stood up for me like that, and for it to be you, that did it – "

The adoration, the devotion in her eyes at that moment overwhelmed him so much as to betray Mrs. Royston's ample trust and lean forward to kiss his betrothed. It was not a long, passionate kiss, but neither was it a short, chaste one. It was of the perfect length to demonstrate how very much he cared for her, how very much he appreciated her adoration, her need of his enduring protection, her want of his love.

It overwhelmed her, but in her sweet confusion she found his arms were strong ones to lean on, and Henry in turn found himself proud of this.

"You seem very well," she whispered.

"I am – rode Lucinda back to the house at a canter. My health is not quite what it was before, but I am more than well enough to meet you at the altar, my dear, sweet Kitty."