I know there has been a lot of angst to this point, but this chapter is less heavy. There are no awful surprises just around the corner; I promise.


44. The Legacy of our Parents

"You take too much upon yourself," I told Fitz as I adjusted the pillow under my head. "It is noble that you wish to right things for the people that your father wronged, but it is not truly your responsibility. Whatever you do is more than you have to do. Do you not see that this Mantley wishes you to take on this task so that he might feel better about the part he played in all your father did?"

"I understand that, but just as I inherited my station in life, and any debts tied to our holdings, do you not see that I have also the moral responsibility to pay off the debts that were never formalized, perhaps have more responsibility in such area because we are talking about my siblings? Even if they do not bear his name, men of conscience take care of their by-blows as well. And I have the means to do right by them. I have shirked such responsibilities far too long, put it off on Mantley rather than dealt with it properly."

"I do not wish to dissuade you from taking the actions you think right. I only seek to take this guilt away from you. Whatever you shall wish to do, I shall support you in this," I replied. "If you wish to go visit them, I shall be by your side."

"I thank you," Fitz replied. His words seemed both genuine and to be his final word on the subject.

We lay in silence for several long moments, still separated by the few inches that Fitz had put between himself and me. I felt more at ease with him now, and hoped he felt the same. Seeking a new topic, and to further understand the man who was my husband, I asked, "Could you tell me of your mother?"

My husband gave a great sigh and then replied, "She was a great woman, a far better wife than my father deserved. In appearance she was like to Georgiana, but smaller, with curly blonde hair. My mother was very accomplished, sang, danced, played several instruments, painted and other things of that sort.

"Mother painted lovely landscapes and vistas that you will see at Pemberley. When we go there you shall see both the places that she painted and her paintings of them. Indeed, in my room here, although it is too dark to see them now, are examples of her work, and the painting in your room and the ones in the family parlor are hers as well.

"I do not think my father truly loved her, for if he had, he would not have treated her as he did, but I suppose he missed her when she was gone, did not want any reminders to prick his heart, for after she died he ordered all of her paintings removed and stored in the attic. He had every personal object taken from her room and stored as well. The furniture remained, but it was all covered in Holland cloths.

"I should have still liked those reminders of her about, but Father would not even let me keep the paintings she had gifted me, which were hung in my own room. When I was feeling especially miserable, I would sneak into either her room or the attics and remove the cloths. There was a sofa upon which she used to hold me to her as she read to me, and when I looked at her paintings it was as if she stood beside me looking at them as well."

My heart ached for the boy who lost his mother far too soon and could not even have the comfort of having her things and paintings about. I placed my hand on his shoulder and this time he let me. "Fitz, that must have been so hard to have her gone and all trace of her removed, too."

"It was," said he with a little catch in his voice. "But Father was not the sort of person a child could reason or bargain with. When I tried to say anything about what I wanted, he told me I needed to toughen up and move forward. He would say disparaging things about our relationship, such as that she made me too soft. I tried to be who Father wanted me to be. After Father's death, after a full year of mourning was observed, I had her paintings all brought down and Georgiana and I picked our favorites to display. Georgiana has some of her things now, also."

Remembering perhaps my original question, Fitz added, "But you wanted to hear about my mother and not about how things were after her death.

"When Mamma was happy she would sing as she walked about in the privacy of our home and estate. She had a dancing sort of step. This was her true self, for she acted quite differently with company, everything stiff and proper.

"When I was small, Mama used to hold my hand as we walked the gardens, singing together. She used to make up songs to teach me things. There was one that helped me learn my letters and numbers; things of that sort. I liked them well enough, but my favorite one was the song about how she loved me. She would sing it to me when tucking me in at night, and later when I was sick. The tune of it has never left me and I have sung it to Georgiana as well at times.

"When my father was pleased with Mamma, he would call her 'my little songbird' or 'the little songbird.' She entertained him many an evening with her playing and singing, and her accomplishments in this area were always displayed for guests.

"If someone else would have called her a songbird, I would have thought it a pure mark of affection, and acknowledgment of her talents and perhaps Father meant it as such. However, I began to see as I became older that it was more about ownership than affection. He would often combine it with other phrases that made me think it was a way of putting her in her place. She was not to offer him advice, but to entertain him.

"Mamma was well-read; she had a most informed mind. She took full advantage of our libraries and Father never curtailed her reading, I believe thought it just as well for her to occupy herself in this way when her other duties were done. For he was certainly finding his own amusements elsewhere and hers had the advantage that it kept her at home.

"She gave me good advice, thoughtful advice. She would listen to everything I had to tell her, was always reasoned and seeking to understand everyone's opinion and give it appropriate weight. Even on her death bed she was thinking more about what we needed than about herself. She wanted more for Georgiana than she had; did not want her to be a pawn in my father's schemes; saw the ugliness of man."

"I wish I could have met her," I told him and meant it.

"She would have liked you, I am most certain of it. For you are your own person, as she was."

"Perhaps," I allowed, "although I am most certain she would have never dreamed that someone like you would marry someone like me. Especially not after everything that befell my family. If she was anything like Lady Catherine . . ."

"Lady Catherine is far more supercilious than my mother ever was," he corrected. "Yes, my choice would have surprised her I am sure. She would have been concerned for what this would do to Georgiana, to our family. It might have taken her some time to warm to the idea, but she would have liked you and she would have respected that it was my choice. I truly believe that above all she would have wanted me to be happy and done everything she could have to present you blameless to society as my aunt is doing in her stead.

"In truth, if Mamma knew the scheme I employed in discouraging Richard from his suit and my whole manner with securing you, she would be quite displeased and ashamed of me. Yes, I would have received quite the dressing down in private. She believed most strongly in God and doing what was right, even if it was not easy. She saw the truth of the viciousness of George Wickham that my father did not.

"I loved her dearly, love her still. Now, perhaps, my parents are united in death (although Jesus said that God is the God of the living and not the dead, which I heard once meant that everyone in heaven is alive). If Father did truly change and was redeemed in the end, she would be so pleased. But she would be glad that in heaven no one is married anymore for he was not the person who should have been her spouse. She deserved so much more than she received from him. Is it wrong that sometimes I have uttered prayers that are more to her than to God? Somehow it feels that she would understand things better, though I suppose that is blaspheme."

I slid closer to my husband and hugged him from behind. "Not at all. You know her better than Him. And I am sure He understands. Talking to her even now must be a comfort. I confess to being mad at God for taking away my father and that I have also done things of the same sort. It is easier to talk to Papa than God; that is certain."

My husband turned toward me and we held each other, him stroking through my hair, me rubbing his back. He asked, "Will you tell me of your father?"

Turnabout was of course more than fair, but I did not like to think about my father, for the pain was still fresh though six months had passed. "You met him once or twice I believe?"

"Yes, I did, but exchanged no more than a dozen words with Mr. Bennet. I did observe that he seemed to treat you with affection and when you talked together (I was not close enough to hear the exchange), that there seemed to be genuine fondness between you."

"Yes, there was," I replied. "I both loved and respected him. Papa was a man of many faults, but not of the same sort as your father. I have no reason to think my father was anything but fully faithful to my mother. But he did not love her. He loved his library, inhabited books more than this world. Escaped regularly into them to the detriment of everything else.

"He loved his own mind too, his own cleverness. He used it to make sport of others, employed his ready wit as a sword, or rather a fencing foil, to prick and ping. One of his favorite games to make fun of others with sarcasm, to make them think he agreed with them to see how ridiculous they could be and to have me be there to observe it, nay even sometimes to participate in this game. It was his way of proving to himself his superiority over them.

"I knew it was mean spirited, but I wanted him to approve of me and learned to play the same game, though I hope I was kinder in employing it than he was. Still, it was certainly not in the spirit of loving one's neighbor. He even employed this tool against my mother and my younger sisters, and even me on occasion. I always preferred to be his ally than the one attacked. But do not misunderstand me, even those he attacked he still had an affection for, would do things to help them.

"I was his favorite, with Jane second in his affection, the source of sensible conversation. But we were mere placeholders, for he used to say of us daughters that we were 'all silly and ignorant like other girls' but allowed that I had 'something more of quickness' than my sisters. I think if there had been a son, we would have been ignored in favor of him. Papa did not truly believe our understanding could be anywhere equal to his own. And I cannot but conclude that he did not love us enough for he gave way to Mamma's spending more than he ought, did not plan for our lives after his death, and even that which belonged only to Mamma, for her comfort and then ours, was found to be all spent after he was gone.

"Given his intellect, Papa certainly knew what fate awaited us once he died. Though I miss him so, I am also angry at him to leave us in such a state of penury. I try to excuse it, to think that he believed he still had time to right this wrong, many years likely . . . but my mind returns again and again to the fact that a wise man plans for the worst that may come, that if he truly cared for us that he would have done more. The fact that he did not, makes me wonder if he loved us at all."

Fitz tightened his grip about me and said with such earnestness that I could not help but feel a pleasing affection for him, that some day might be love, "How could anyone not love you, Lizzy? I believe it nigh impossible." Then his kissed my forehead.

I snuggled myself deeper into his arms, into the warmth of his larger body. His affection was a balm to my soul.

We did not talk further that night and eventually we slept, entwined no longer but I think both taking comfort from the presence of the other. I roused once or twice, but never gave any thought of retreating to my own bed. In fact in the end I slept so deep and hard that I did not rouse until the sun seeping through the windows around the edges of one curtain (which was not covering that window as fully as it ought) reached my face.

I awoke with a little start, confused as to where I was, but saw next to me my husband. His head was turned to me, his hair was tousled, and I observed that his hair in its natural state was more curly than I had known it to be. He was looking at me with such an affectionate eye that is was too much, that I wished to hide myself from him. But remembering my new resolution, I fought this impulse and stared back at him.

"Are you hungry?" Fitz asked, reaching over to stroke the side of my face with his fingers. It was not a sensuous touch in truth, but I felt a certain warmth of desire nevertheless.

"Yes," I responded honestly. My appetite, which had long been repressed, had roared to life after exposure to real food in his home. My body seemed to wish, on this morning, to make recompense for all the months of deprivation. "But I do not wish to get up and get dressed just yet. It may seem silly of me, but I feel as if I were to leave for the mistress's chambers now, that all of this, our new understanding, would be but a dream."

"Breakfast here then?" He sat up, gestured left toward the pull cord and then to his right, to a space that had nothing in it. Had this then been where the table brought to my chambers for me to dine upon had come from?

Fitz must have seen something quizzical in my expression as he turned toward the empty space and said, "Perhaps, we may, the two of us, dine in your room instead?"

"Yes," I replied.

I then became aware of my need to use the chamber pot and though I did not wish to leave I also had no wish for him to hear me make my morning water. I recalled he had heard that very thing on our wedding night, when I had drunk so much wine, but then finding relief before the consummation of our marriage seemed of too much importance to care much about what he could hear. Too, doubtless some of my natural embarrassment had been suppressed with the muzziness of wine and the fear of the unknown. But now, sober, in the light of day, I did not want him to hear anything.

"Perhaps we might refresh ourselves and then come to your room when the food arrives?" He offered, sliding from the bed and walking toward the cord. His banyan had loosened during the night and I could see more of his chest hair. Perhaps he had a similar need to relieve himself or was guessing about my own.

"Yes." I got up also. I turned toward the door and then paused to look back at him. "I shall not dress yet," I told him and then turned back toward the door, my face feeling flushed with embarrassment.

"Then I shall not, either," he replied in his deeper, rumbling tone that caused my innards to churn with anticipation of what might, after breakfast, happen in the light of day.


AN: Yes, this is a shorter chapter, but seemed like a natural break point. So quick question, should they talk more after breakfast, get into things like the arrangement for her sisters etc. and let any anticipated interactions be put off for later as they work through further issues that need to be sorted (so that repressed passion can build), or should Lizzy initiate some further intimacy with Fitz right after breakfast in the full light of day?