Chapter 16: Onward to Rosings
The journey from London to Rosings took the better part of a day. Georgiana, Mrs. Annesley and Georgiana's maid rode in one carriage while our valets rode in the other with the luggage. As for me and my cousin, Colonel Edwin Fitzwilliam, we rode our stallions with the outriders in front and behind the carriages. We planned to stop in the typical places for this journey, but to remain longer at each one to see to my sister's comfort. Although the day was cold, it dawned clear and bright, so I anticipated no difficulties with our journey.
The previous night I cautioned Georgiana not to speak about the purpose of her joining us as I knew Edwin would not take kindly to the notion of my desiring to court Miss Elizabeth. It was not, as one might think, that he would be against me associating myself with the daughter of a country gentleman with an undoubtedly small dowry, or that he would disapprove of her unfortunate connections to those in trade, her gossipy mother, and wild sisters. His time in the army had taught him that rank, wealth, and connections neither made for better soldiers nor men.
I expected once Edwin met Miss Elizabeth that he would be charmed by the lady herself and if, perhaps, one of our other cousins had decided to wed her, would have no particular objections other than the practical ones of how to help her gain acceptance in the society those of our status were expected to keep. Miss Elizabeth could become Georgiana's dearest friend with nary a raised eyebrow from him. Instead it would be me who would be the objectionable one in such a match.
Edwin had served as one of my minders for years. He catered to my needs, smoothed over my mistakes, made excuses for me and had every appearance of being my close friend, yet I had the sense that all he did was done at the behest of my father and uncle the earl, not because of any desire to help me personally.
Among his brothers, Edwin had all the charm and manners. He was dignified and likeable and consequentially when he associated with me he could improve others impressions of me. Unlike my father, he did not want me to adopt my stoney visage, but to attempt to immitate him. He did not really understand me, but he was faithful in performing his job. As a consequence, my father had left him a small estate and he had retired from his calvary post but he had not retired from fulfilling his obligation to my father.
I did not dislike my cousin. He was not like George. I believed he meant well and was loyal. We had been together for so many years that I was at ease around him. At one time, I would have said he was like a brother, but now, we were not exactly friends.
I first met Edwin when I was around four years of age (he would have been seven or so) when we visited his family's estate. I do not remember anything of that trip other than what my mother told me about it, and she spoke but little of the trip over the years. When it came up, she seemed sad.
I do remember the next time I saw Edwin. It was the summer a few months after Georgiana was born, when I was twelve and he fifteen. His whole family had come to visit Pemberley and our home was far different with so many guests. I remember feeling out of sorts that my places of solitude (other than my own chambers) were all overrun, even though when I encountered them his brothers mostly ignored me.
When I was not at my lessons, I spent a good deal of time riding. It was my custom to always ride at first light before breaking my fast and to also ride after my lessons if I had time. I felt confident while on a horse. I did not have to talk, I just had to be and though I did not think about it this way at the time, in looking back on it now I understand the exercise and activity calmed me.
I noticed that Edwin was often at the stable visiting the horses. The first few days we encountered each other there, he did little other than greet me, but gradually he began to ask me about the horses.
At that time, I had memorized a good deal of information about all the horses in our stable. Although I no longer needed a riding instructor, the man who taught me was a favorite of mine and loved to tell me about the horses under his care. Over the years I learned, how many hands tall they were, their sires and dams, their ages and temperaments. Thus, when Edwin asked me about them, I could rattle off information most easily. However, as was typical for me, I was most comfortable saying the same information in the same way and did not like to be asked for new information.
I remember he asked me a question for which I did not have a rehearsed answer: "Why is Mr. Wickham's gelding named Snail? I have seen him out and he is not a slow horse."
Questions are my enemies. Though I am much better at answering them now, I remember that I always used to feel an almost overwhelming anxiety when I had no pre-prepared answer.
That time I resorted to faithfully recited all the information I knew about Snail, in the hope that the answer was somewhere within what I knew, or if not that he would be satisfied. But as the information spewed out, I became more and more certain that I did not know the answer. I concluded with, "My father's horse is from the same sire and dam but is one year older."
Edwin regarded me with a wide-eyed look that made me feel uncomfortable. I did know how what it meant, but I did not like how it changed his face into something less familiar.
In defense I yelled out, "That is enough; that is enough." The loud words I myself spoke were angry and made me feel uneasy, I felt my body stiffen and to try to relieve how I was feeling, I began to pace
Fortunately, Edwin did not press me for an answer. Instead he quietly told me, "Thank you Fitzwilliam. I am waiting for a horse to be saddled." As I was as well, I also waited, gradually calming.
While we waited, he half reclined against the wall a few feet from me and told me in an even and gentle voice, "Next year I will be joining the cavalry. School is difficult for me and I am ready to seek my career instead." He did not demand anything of me, asking no questions, not even looking in my direction. Then he was silent.
Our saddled horses were brought out at about the same time and he mounted first. Without looking in my direction he said, "You may join me if you wish."
I made no reply, but he waited until I had mounted before setting out. I did follow him then, noticing that he glanced occasionally in my direction, I suppose to see if I was still with him and to make sure of my competence, though I knew likely he had already heard about my skill on horseback as my riding was one of the few things my father could boast about. The ride was pleasant as he took a route that was different from my usual one but one that did not pose any particular difficulties and there was something nice about not riding alone.
When we returned to the stable he told me, again his voice soft and even, "Fitzwilliam, you are a skilled horseman. I will ride again tomorrow morning. I hope that you will join me."
We rode together many times that summer. Though his brothers also rode, they never rode when we did. I enjoyed that time.
Edwin never demanded anything of me. Occasionally he would ask me a question but ignore it if I did not answer or answered incorrectly. He would also listen to me talk. I know I probably said the same things many, many times, but he would still listen patiently and occasionally contribute something to the conversation. He would also tell me things without expecting any sort of an answer, though as time went on, I was more apt to respond to his conversation.
I found that after a while I gravitated towards Edwin at other times, too. I became a sort of shadow to him. It felt safe to be beside him. He never rejected me, and when his brothers bothered me, he told them, "Leave Fitz alone."
I began to accompany Edwin when he went to the nursery to see his sisters. I would often watch him play with them as I held my own sister and rocked her in the rocking chair. I took him as my example of how a brother ought to act.
Spending time with Edwin had another benefit. I had to take my lessons with George Wickham, which would not have been my preference, but my father was always urging me to spend my leisure time with him (though I did my best to avoid doing so). However, when I was with Edwin, no one ever asked me to go anywhere else or do anything else. They were content to entrust me to my cousin.
I had a lot of resentment towards George because he liked to tattle on me. I resented him for both telling lies about me and the truth. It is easier now to channel my frustrations and even rage into more productive activities, but as a child I often acted out over things I had no control over.
It was not uncommon for me to destroy or ruin things when frustrated. Sometimes my anger was channeled into a sudden, dramatic act of destruction, such as when I ripped drapes in our school room with my bare hands. Other times it was a covert sabotage, subtle destruction that no one might notice for a good long time, such as when I took a knife to a throw rug in my bedroom, first only making a tiny cut in one corner, then as the days went by I added more cuts until the damage was dramatic when someone took the trouble to actually look at it.
George always made sure my father knew who was responsible for any damage. Perhaps, at first, this might have been done to prevent him from somehow getting in trouble, but as we grew older, it became worse than him just tattling. George began to break things deliberately and then lay the blame on me. He knew if he did something characteristic of me that I would always get the blame.
At the time I had no idea of his motive, but having a bit of distance and being older (and having heard Edwin's and Bingley's opinion on the matter more than a few times), I understand George's behavior better than I did at the time. I believe George was envious of my position in life, hated me for having what he did not, especially because he did not believe I deserved it, and sought to integrate himself to my father.
I remember an incident where I snuck into the hen house, collected a basket full of eggs and pilfered them and was caught throwing them. This was not the first time I had taken eggs from the hen house. I done this a few times before, though it took preparation for me to carry out the final act of taking the eggs.
The first time the smell put me off before I came close. While there was not a good solution to this problem, the second time I approached I had a scarf wrapped around my face and breathed out of my mouth. That time I made it to the door but was then too squeamish to push my way through the chickens hoping I had feed. The third time I grabbed some of their feed and threw it on the other side of their enclosure before I entered so none would brush against me, but then was too alarmed by the appearance of the unwashed eggs to even touch them. The fourth time I made sure my hands were covered by my oldest gloves that were already quite stained but failed to throw enough grain to keep them away from me and ended up abandoning my basket when only half filled inside. The fifth time I brought plenty of grain and managed to keep them distracted long enough to complete my mission.
My usual practice, once I had worked out all the particulars for collecting the eggs, was to take as many eggs as would fit in my basket and then escape into Pemberley's woods before throwing each egg as hard as I could against tree trunks at various distances. I knew it was wrong to do so but the desire was overwhelming and the relief I felt as each egg shattered was amazing. I never heard a word about it and thought my thefts were undetected.
However, on this occasion I had been so angry that I did not make it to the woods and instead threw them against my father's new carriage. I was angry at him and I wanted to punish him. I do not recall the exact incident I was angry about. My father was always trying to make me be who he wanted me to be as his heir, and I had learned that I could not oppose him without horrible consequences.
Edwin came across me as I threw the last egg or two.
"Fitz, what have you done?" he cried.
I hung my head in shame, "It was not me. I did not do it. I did not mean to. I am a bad person. I made a bad choice."
"Is it you who is behind the missing eggs? George said it must be you and that is what he has told your father."
"No, not me," I said, almost yelling even as I knew he knew what I had done. I did not want to get in trouble. Admitting it would get me in trouble.
"I think it is you," Edwin responded, stroking his hand through his sandy hair and looking away from me as he waited for me to answer.
I made no answer.
"I will help you clean it up," he offered, still not looking in my direction. "On a warm day like today, the eggs will be difficult to remove if they sit too long. Mr. Henry has been cleaning the saddles and I expect he has soapy water left."
I nodded but made no move to follow Edwin. I thought about what dried eggs would look like on the carriage. I wondered if they would be yellow and white like cooked eggs. Although I sometimes came across the shells of the eggs I had thrown in the woods, I usually did not see the yolk or white. Some forest creature must have eaten them.
Edwin returned a few minutes later with a large wooden bucket with soapy water and some rags. I half-heartedly cleaned, enjoying the splashing of dunking my rag in the bucket and getting wet rather than making much effort at all to clean the carriage. I was still angry at my father and as much as I feared punishment, I also longed for him to understand what he had done was wrong, for him to be punished by me. Edwin did all the strong scrubbing and when we were done the carriage gleamed in the sunlight.
"Well, there is nothing to tell your father now," he told me with a smile. "No more taking eggs and breaking them."
"No more," I agreed, intending to keep my promise, at least for a while.
A couple of days later, Edwin and I were coming back from a ride when I saw my father standing by the stable doors. He had a familiar look upon his face, and I knew what that look meant; he was angry. However, I was not sure what he could be angry about. I had completed my lessons and then gone for a ride with Edwin.
Before I had even dismounted, he was already yelling at me, "Of all the stupid things to do, Fitzwilliam, what were you thinking?"
As soon as I was off my horse, he pulled me by the arm until we were just outside the house. I noticed that Edwin had followed us.
My father pointed up at one of Pemberley's high windows and asked, "Fitzwilliam, what could you be thinking to throw an egg there up there?" I looked up and to my horror saw the large splatter of what must have been drying egg on the window. The edges of it were white, but it still glistened in the middle.
I said nothing. I had not done it, yet I knew my father would not believe me.
"Uncle George, I do not think he did it," Edwin offered. "I met him as he was leaving his lessons and then we went for the ride we were returning from when you met us. I think he knows better than to throw an egg at a window."
My father looked at me, apparently considering. His voice was softer when he said, "Eggs make a tremendous mess. This seems to be the sort of thing you would do, but perhaps, just perhaps, this time you are not to blame. I had better never see you with an egg unless you are eating it off your plate."
Looking back on that summer, with the wisdom of many more years, I believe that during that first time in the stable and many more times besides, Edwin talked to me as one might talk to a frightened horse: calm, even, soft, gentle. And like that frightened horse, he was also able to calm me, to make me feel safe.
Two years ago as we were riding to Rosing to visit Lady Catherine and Anne for an Easter visit, Edwin asked me about the incident when we were stopped at an inn for refreshments. I remember him asking, this time looking right at my eyes, "Fitz, do you remember when there were broken eggs on the windows as Pemberley?"
"Yes." I looked at him, but not quite in his eyes.
"Did you do it? I have long wondered." He scratched idly at his sideburn.
"No. It truly was not me that time; it must have been George."
"Well, that explains it." He gave a gentle nod. "I thought that if it was you, Fitz, that you would not have just stopped at one, save for if you were interrupted. I am glad to realize that my instincts were right. Even if I had believed that you did it, I would have acted the same. I did not want to see the punishment your father would inflict upon you for it.
"It is one thing for grown men to receive punishment for acting improperly, such as committing theft. I have seen plenty of punishments for things like that in the calvary, even carried out some punishments myself, such as lashings, but it is not right for a father to treat a son that way when he cannot help his actions."
Later, when we set off on our journey again, Edwin and I were stuck behind a slow wagon for a bit. While we might have ridden around it, he said, "We are not in a hurry, we might as well walk the horses for a while; I should like to talk to you longer."
"Very well." The movement of the horse made me more amenable to listen to him.
"Unlike how your father was, Lady Catherine has never punished Anne for anything. She is a kind mother, much as your own mother was. Should you marry Anne, why Lady Catherine would always treat you well."
This was not the first time Edwin had endeavored to convince me to marry my cousin Anne. He continued, "Everyone expects it. The connections are excellent, it strengths family loyalty, you can live a safe and retiring life, the both of you, far away from the pressures of London for the perfectly acceptable reason of her health."
While Edwin's reasons all made sense and I had contemplated similar advantages to such a marriage, the main objection I raised to him was, "I have no wish to spend a protracted amount of time with Lady Catherine." And now, looking back it is glaringly obvious I should have considered that there was no love or even attraction between me and Anne. I did not know her well, though I understood her better than most.
"But don't you see," Edwin tried again to convince me, "Lady Catherine is another layer of protection for you both. Her domineering nature distracts others from paying unwarranted attention to you. I admit you have improved, but I doubt greatly whether you can ever be fully as you ought. There must be something off with the blood of my aunts to produce you and Cousin Anne, yes mayhap it is through our grandmother's line. Do you not see that it is your duty to purify the blood?"
I asked him, "Whatever do you mean?"
Edwin had no compunction in telling me: "It is your duty to your father, and to mine as well, to remove your defect from the family line by not producing any children. Anne is sickly and no one expects you to produce an heir with her. Having seen for myself your self restraint with my Sylvia, I believe you can keep yourself from her bed. But if mayhap you cannot, I doubt her body capable of carrying a babe. And if she did, I wager neither would survive. That is why I would first urge self restraint.
"While we both know a woman's purpose for being is to be the vessel for man's desires and produce his sons, God himself has sought to restrain her from being fruitful and muliplying and given you the means of doing your duty. Georgiana can carry on your family legacy; her husband can adopt the family name as a condition to the marriage. She is fond of my youngest brother, perhaps he could become a Darcy."
I remember feeling many emotions at once and being unable to name them I simply kneed my stallion and urged him fast around the wagon. I let the wind whistling over my body calm me as I tried to focus my mind on the map in my head. However, this was not enough to truly distract me.
During the rest of that ride, images of my possible future played before my mind. It felt dull, like saw dust. I wondered whether, perhaps Edwin was right, that this was the most proper future for me. I wondered if, perhaps, I deserved no better. However, still, I resisted all attempts on that trip and the one that followed to say anything that might encourage Lady Catherine to think that I might wed Anne.
I was hopeful that during this ride that I might avoid Edwin prodding me to marry Anne again. This was not a future I had any wish to consider, now that I had hope of something more. I worried that Edwin would attempt to interfere with my efforts to improve Miss Elizabeth's impression of me if he knew she was the object of my affections.
Georgiana and I exchanged only brief greetings with Edwin before she vanished into the carriage, the carriage horses began to pull it, and Edwin and I began riding at an easy pace by the carriage. With the rhythm of their hoofbeats, I resolved once again, "Do not tell him, do not tell him, do not tell him." which of course was short-hand for my vow not to reveal to Edwin by word or deed my intentions toward Miss Elizabeth until I secured her promise.
As my body moved up and down with my mount, I began daydreaming about seeing her and planning how it could come to pass. Perhaps Miss Elizabeth would take walks as she had at Netherfield and I could arrange to encounter her on during one. I imagined walking toward her, seeing her wearing her yellow gown, her face shaded by a matching bonnet, her lovely dark eyes seeking out mine. It was a thing of beauty to imagine her gently swaying form approaching me far away from Edwin's prying eyes, while I gently caressed her ribbon. In my fancy, I would be the farmer's son and she the pretty maid.
