Thursday, 5 May 1814
To myself,
I have responded to the treatment I have received well and, according to Dr. McKelvey, I no longer have active disease. My Catherine, however, still has active disease and is showing very little signs of improving. I was permitted to see her at last and she looked quite a frightening sight. She was very pale and frail - she looked as if she were dying. She still does now, and perhaps she is. Perhaps bringing her here, far from home, was a terrible idea and it was all in vain. Before I saw her, I had been writing to her family about her condition based on Dr. McKelvey's and the nurses' words on her condition, but now that I have seen her myself, I am not sure how I can write to her family with hopes of good news to come.
Dr. McKelvey says this is normal with many of his patients and that, in due time, she will begin to recover, but it will take time. I dream of being able to have a proper marriage to my Catherine. I dream of being able to hold her in our bed at Westfield with the curtains of the bed drawn so that we may lie in bed together for hours on end, both of us unclothed and embracing between lovemaking and resting. For so long, I have wanted to know what it would be like to make love to my Catherine, but at the same time, I fear what she would think of me unclothed. I am not as fit nor as thin as I had once been and certainly not quite as hairless as I used to be. I fear she will run in fear believing me to be some kind of overweight orangutan. I cannot help but wonder, though, if she has ever had similar thoughts about me...
I should not be thinking of these things now, but I suppose that I cannot help it. I am a man with a thirst for the woman I love and I will wait for her to be ready, but I do declare that waiting may hurt quite a bit. For Catherine's sake, I do hope she will recover soon, not to consummate our marriage but because I cannot stand seeing her so ill.
Yours,
Colonel R. Fitzwilliam
Sunday, 8 May 1814
To my dearest Catherine,
I have decided to write my journal entries to you instead, as I sometimes feel I can be less open with myself than I am with you. You regained consciousness for the first time today since we arrived, but it was not for very long. I had been breaking my fast in my bedchamber when it happened, but after it had happened, one of the nurses, I believe her name is Miss Mackelby, informed me that you had called for me. I dropped my utensils and ran to your side, only to find you unconscious yet again. I sat on the edge of your bed and I stroked your dark brown hair, which looked like midnight against your pale white skin, and whispered to you, 'I am here, my Catherine, and I always shall be'. You did not respond, but I knew in my heart that you had received my message.
It has been a very long fortnight, my love, since we discovered your illness and brought you to the sanitorium. But progress has been made and that is evident by you regaining consciousness. Dr. McKelvey said that some patients - not all - rejected the treatment and never again regained consciousness, but you did and that is a start. I declare that I will not leave your side again, for I want to be there the next time you regain consciousness. I promise you that I will be right there beside you holding your hand so that I may be the first face your beautiful blue eyes fall on. I love you, my darling.
All of my strength to you.
Forever yours,
Colonel R. Fitzwilliam
Tuesday, 10 May 1814
To my dearest Catherine,
A letter arrived today from your mother bearing bad news - your father has taken ill with the consumption. I know not how he fares or if he is even still alive, and I most certainly won't be telling you in person until you are much better. I know you, Catherine, and your dear mother is correct; you will blame yourself for his illness. His illness is not your fault, my love, and you did not choose to pass on the illness to him, just like how that servant girl at Pemberley did not choose to pass on the illness to you. If she had, I would have wrung her neck, but I know that that is not how illnesses work.
I wrote back to your mother expressing our condolences and our prayers for his recovery, but you and I both know that the consumption kills all it touches, save for those in sanitoriums, occasionally. I fear that when we said our farewells was the last time we shall ever see Mr. Bennet and even Longbourn, and I am certain that Mrs. Bennet knows this as well. Where she will go, I haven't a clue, but I cannot willingly accept her under my roof with you still so ill. She is no spring chicken and may possibly catch your illness.
I wish your father the best, my love, and all of my strength will continue to go to you. Perhaps soon, you will gain consciousness - and your memories - for longer than a few short moments.
Forever yours,
Colonel R. Fitzwilliam