Shortly before Easter, 1850
Darcy joined his cousin as he rested outside on the grand terraced veranda. He carried hidden within his coat a bottle of whiskey, two glasses, and a carafe of water, proudly brandishing them as he approached. Fitzwilliam had already been alerted by the clinking and clanking of the glassware and was now waiting patiently on one of two large lawn chairs they had placed for optimal viewing of the vast driveway into Pemberley.
“I say, Buccleuch?” Darcy loudly called out, greatly enjoying his cousin’s annoyance.
“Damn it to hell, brat, you know how I detest being called that. Why do you persist?”
“Well, if you’re going to answer your own questions, I wonder that you even waste your breath.”
Fitzwilliam emitted a derogatory sound through his clenched lips.
“No mouth farts, please.” Darcy glowed with pleasure. “Has Amanda reconciled herself to becoming a duchess yet?” He carefully placed his purloined goodies onto the table and then settled himself in his own chair.
Fitzwilliam harrumphed. “She was only recently coming to terms with being an earl’s wife after… how many decades has it been? Now it appears it was my fault all my old cousins died childless within a year of each other.” Richard took the glass that Darcy offered and watched eagerly as the whiskey was poured. “She hates the name, you know, says it sounds as if someone is coughing up phlegm. She cannot stop laughing whenever we are addressed.” His mood brightened considerably, relishing their rare treat. “How did you get this past the old gargoyles?” He smacked his lips at the forbidden taste.
“Really, Richard, I am the master of my home, the king of my domain.” With an indignant huff, Darcy lowered himself deeper into the chair, elegantly repositioning his cuffs and collar.
“I imagine that is why you hid the bottle as you walked by the windows.”
Darcy gazed with haughty condescension at his cousin. One eyebrow arched. “I hid the bottle for the same reason you’ve got those two pipes stashed beneath the table.” Fitzwilliam grunted happily at being reminded of their presence and reached below to bring them up.
Their doctors would be disapproving of these liberties with their health—their wives would be livid. It made it somehow all the more enjoyable.
As he lit his own pipe, Darcy became aware of the trouble his cousin was having when he noticed for the first time the glasses perched upon his nose. “Since when do you wear spectacles?” He watched as Fitzwilliam swiveled his head around like a bird eying a worm. It began to be a nearly comical attempt to bring a flame even remotely near the bowl of his pipe. Darcy leaned over to guide the light.
“Thank you, brat, I don’t.” Fitzwilliam puffed vigorously once or twice in triumph. “Wear glasses, that is. They’re not mine. Since you feel the need to snoop, these are Amanda’s. I stole them from her dresser when I rifled through it this morning.” He stifled a chuckle. Looking very proud of himself, he leaned his head back and blew the pipe smoke into the air. “Aaahhhhh,” he sighed. He was in heaven. “The woman’s blind as a bat for reading, you know.”
“Good God, why were you going through her dresser?”
“Well, nosy bits, I was looking for the tobacco pouch she stole from my dresser, of course.” He shook his head as if Darcy had mortar for brains and clucked his tongue in annoyance. “You know perfectly well she won’t allow me to have tobacco since that episode with my heart.” The spectacles were quickly slipped into his pocket. “She’ll go mad looking for these.” He beamed.
“Fitzwilliam, as wealthy as you are, you could provide your wife with more than one pair of spectacles, could you not?”
“Well, a lot you know. Amanda has at least six pairs of these things.” Fitzwilliam glared indignantly at his cousin. “And it took me a devil of a time to find and hide them all.”
Darcy shook his head sadly, “Have you no shame?”
Fitzwilliam gave this a fleeting moment of thought. “No, why do you ask?” He puffed on his pipe and grinned wickedly. “Heavens, man, how else can I obtain the vital information with which to torment my beloved if I do not go through her private things? My God, Darcy, what kind of marriage do you have?”
It was one month after the passing of the indomitable Lady Catherine de Bourgh, having lived to be an exquisitely lively eighty-nine years, her wits about her until nearly three weeks before the end. And it was one week until Easter. Easter for the two men had always been with Catherine and her daughter at Rosings Park for as long as they remembered. They had decided the tradition would continue on at the Darcy’s magnificent home, Pemberley.
Darcy and Fitzwilliam were now resting on its grand veranda, awaiting the arrival of their children and a large number of grandchildren, who would be joining them for the holidays.
“Elizabeth only this morning informed me all the children will be in attendance this year. Tell me it isn’t so, I beg of you.”
“Yes, Cousin, as horrible as that thought is, it is true. From what I’ve been told, all of ours will be here with assorted spouses and children, as well as your three and their families.” Fitzwilliam grinned, his pipe securely clenched in his teeth. He removed it as they clinked their glasses and downed their drinks in one swallow.
“Well, that settles it.” Darcy placed his empty glass down on the table between them. “I’ll have to sell immediately and go into hiding. God help Derbyshire.” He puffed on his pipe, unable to suppress his grin.
Glancing furtively over his shoulder to ensure they weren’t being watched by the wives, Fitzwilliam poured them both another drink. Their children, the next generation of cousins from the Darcy and Fitzwilliam families, were very close and famously rowdy when together.
“From what I hear, most of them were to meet in Matlock to stay overnight before setting out, in which case, poor Matlock has very likely raised a white flag by now, and they will all descend at the same time.” Fitzwilliam slouched down into his own chair, his head resting on the back cushion in order to better enjoy the sun’s warmth on his face. His pipe dangled from his mouth.
“Have they said why they all accepted the invitation this time? Not that I begrudge them coming, bloodcurdling thought that it is, but I believe it’s been many a year since the whole family was together for a holiday. In fact, I don’t think it’s ever occurred before. Usually in-laws or business or school claim a few casualties. This may very well violate some sort of municipal health regulation.”
“I believe they felt badly about Catherine’s passing, thought perhaps we all needed the support.” Fitzwilliam took a puff on his pipe and grew serious for just a moment, staring absently down the long road. “They have all turned out to be truly splendid people, really—proud of each and every one. I mean, if you can ignore the shootings and screaming.”
“Elizabeth tells me that Anthony, however, will be absent, that he is traveling to Egypt”—Darcy turned his piercing gaze toward Richard—“along with the very elegant Sir Edmund Percy. That’s rather a surprise, don’t you think? He’s rarely missed a holiday before in my memory. And as a matter of fact, how does he even know Sir Edmund?”
Richard became very still.
“Is there anything you wish to finally share with me, Richard?” It was highly diverting to watch his cousin squirm as he did. “You know how futile it is to try and keep anything from me—I shall drag the truth from you one day.”
“Well, their acquaintance is of long standing—only natural, really—they are both members of the Royal Academy Board, both interested in antiquities.” He was withering under Darcy’s relentless stare. “I know nothing,” he finally blurted out. Fitzwilliam’s eyes went everywhere but to his cousin. “Good God, it’s like having two wives,” he mumbled.
They sat in silence then, their minds going over the past years and the loved ones who would not be joining them this Easter.
Lady Catherine, the Grande Dame, passed shortly after her beloved daughter, Anne. Losing Anne had taken the desire to live from the old girl, and in the last few weeks of her life, her mind began wandering to prior days. She was once again aghast at that impudent Elizabeth Bennet, fought her battles with that horrible American Amanda Penrod, and chased her “horrid little nephews” after they disrupted one of her parties. She also redecorated constantly, now only in her mind, but always of the highest quality. The entire family missed the daffy old woman dreadfully.
For many, many years, between the Darcys and the Fitzwilliams, there had been a constant flurry of children, carriages, nannies, and dogs throughout elegant Mayfair, and then all those children had also descended merrily upon Aunt Catherine’s for tarts, biscuits, and cakes. Mayfair would never look the same again.
Mr. Bennet had passed away over twenty years before, followed the next year by Charlotte Collins in childbirth. Mr. Collins was inconsolable for many months until he finally found his comfort with Mary Bennet, who had been secretly yearning for him the whole while.
Caroline Bingley had finally married a very wealthy tradesman and had settled in Edinburgh. She never had children and quickly regretted her removal from London society. London society, it can be reported, did not return the sentiment.
Lady Penrod died a short four years after Amanda and Richard’s marriage, and Harry immediately became one of the wealthiest nine-year-olds in London, inheriting both her London townhome, where he now lived with his own family, and another home in the Lake District.
Fitzwilliam and Amanda had eight children besides their wonderful Harry. His brother, Regis, passed two years after their marriage, and his beloved father passed five years after that, thereby making Richard the seventh Earl of Summerton. Happily, the sixth earl had lived long enough to meet the eighth earl, along with several spares.
Darcy and Elizabeth had three children altogether. He was now Sir Fitzwilliam Darcy, knighted for his outstanding leadership in his beloved Derbyshire and for his innovations in drainage.
Georgiana had married a naval lieutenant and had two lovely children, a boy and a girl. Her husband was now an admiral. Incredibly wealthy, he had traveled several times around the world for the crown, often with his beautiful family in tow.
Wickham was killed by the drunken husband of some woman with whom he was having an affair, and Lydia quickly married another “bad hat,” as Lizzy would say. No one heard from her very often anymore.
Kitty remained unmarried and divided her time living happily in the country with either Elizabeth and Darcy, or as now with her sister Jane and brother-in-law Charles, proud grandparents to adorable twin girls over whom they doted in excess. They were spending their Easter holidays in Ireland.
Darcy lifted his head at a distant sound. “What was that?” The four hounds lying beside them on the veranda immediately stood and leaned forward in anticipation.
“Evidently it was a minor brain seizure,” Fitzwilliam mumbled absently after scanning the empty horizon.
Darcy slumped back down into his chair and turned his face up toward the sun. “Just out of curiosity, how many grandchildren do you have now? What is the latest estimate?”
Fitzwilliam’s eyes fluttered, and his head came up momentarily. “I haven’t the foggiest notion. I’m not sure they’ve all even been named and categorized yet.” He rested his head again against the chair back.
Darcy laughed. He knew his cousin better than that, knew the man was aware of them all, whether his own or Darcy’s or Georgiana’s. Each child, each name, and each birthday was precious to him. Family parties at his home were constants over the years, for any reason, and they were legendary.
“I don’t understand how you had eight children and I only three. It makes no sense.” Darcy strummed his fingers on the arm of his chair, his narrowed gaze fixed on his cousin. He absolutely hated to lose any competition to this man. “You’re no more virile than I. Quite the contrary, in fact.”
Fitzwilliam gave a snort of derision. “Bah! I am virility personified. It oozes from my every pore.”
“Oh, is that what that is?”
“My seed practically leapt into her womb, for heaven’s sake.”
“Rather like a virus.”
Fitzwilliam chuckled and began to fuss with the spectacles he had again taken out and was wearing.
“Come to think of it, you suddenly stopped having children after Edward was born. Certainly Amanda was still young enough. Maybe you weren’t, but she certainly was. Did she finally come to her senses and boot you out of the marital bed, you randy old goat?”
“No, Darcy, as usual, you have everything backward and wrong.”
“Then how did you manage to finally stem the procreational tide?”
“Well, Cousin”—Fitzwilliam began lifting and lowering the spectacles rapidly, trying to ascertain just how myopic his wife really was—“I simply took the matter into my own hands, shall we say…”
“God in heaven, I am always so regretful after I ask you a question.” His head turned at a distant sound. The dogs also stood again, alerted to activity in the distance. They began barking and shot off the veranda.
“You know, Darcy, whenever I feel out of sorts or dreadfully depressed or nauseous, I think of you, and…”
Darcy turned his attention back to Fitzwilliam, briefly touched by this remark. He kept listening, but the sentence was never finished. His one eyebrow shot up in inquiry. “And…?” he encouraged.
“What? Oh, nothing.” Fitzwilliam flapped his hand. “There is nothing to add. I just think of you whenever I get nauseous or depressed. Brat, is that them turning into the drive?” Fitzwilliam was squinting into the lowering sun.
Darcy turned his gaze toward the far road. His face lit up with an immense smile. “Yes, you old baboon, I believe it is.”
Fitzwilliam was up like a shot, slapping his aching knee. A huge smile spread across his face as one hand came up to shield out the setting sun and the other rested on his hip, his eyes trying to make some sense of the dust in the distance.
“Amanda! ” bellowed her husband. “Front and center! ”
“For heaven’s sake! Fitzwilliam!” Darcy winced and covered his ear nearest to his cousin. “Inside voice, please, child.” He thought for a moment perhaps he was spending too much time with his grandchildren. “What I mean to say is, please exercise a little self-restraint and decorum.”
Then he himself turned to face the house. “Elizabeth! ” he bellowed. “Your babies are here! ”
It was an amazing sight, far in the distance, one after another, the beautiful family carriages turning onto the two-mile-long entrance to the main drive. Beyond the river, they could make out Harry and Alice’s carriage in the lead, as always; he was the undisputed leader among the cousins. After his carriage usually came his dearest friend Bennet George Darcy and his family. Following them both was a parade of the remainder of the cousins, or the Fitzwilliam Mob, as they had been christened by London society.
Following after the families’ vehicles were the carriages carrying nurses and nannies and maids and valets, then carriages of luggage, gifts, and toys.
It was a most impressive parade descending upon beautiful old Pemberley.
As they watched the carriages maneuver in the far distance, Fitzwilliam turned to Darcy.
“Cousin, before the Mob arrives and while we are blessedly still in quiet, shall we drink a toast to the ‘old girl’?”
Darcy smiled and nodded. “I had the same idea.” He poured another drink into their glasses.
“To Aunt Catherine,” Fitzwilliam began.
“Beloved matriarch of our family,” Darcy continued.
“Grande Old Dame,” said Fitzwilliam.
With one clink, they tossed back their whiskeys. Both smacked their lips and smiled, enjoying in silence their personal memories of her.
Darcy stretched his arms and legs, stiff from waiting. “By the way, did you receive a copy of Alice’s play for this year’s family theatrical? I believe there was a rather unnecessarily large part in it for you.” Darcy was incredibly proud of his youngest daughter’s gift for writing.
“You mean Meticulous and Libidinous—A Tale of a Tribune and a Centurion? Yes I did, and I can tell you I don’t care much for my part. The centurion, Libidinous, is bullheaded and loud, randy as a rabbit, and incredibly sloppy.”
“Well, what of my part? That tribune fellow, Meticulous , is just a finicky, overconfident snob. Proud as a peacock; thinks he knows everything. However does she come up with these characters of hers?”
After a brief silence, the two old friends burst into raucous laughter.
Closer than brothers still, they went forward to greet their families.