Chapter 29

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

July 1815, Pemberley

D arcy had spent most of the day in the saddle. He had begun with the hayfields, simply because he loved the smell of new-mown hay. They were well into their second cutting. If the weather continued as fine into September, there would be a third cutting, and the haylofts would be packed full for the winter. The largest hayfield was also the nearest to Birchwood Grange, and he had dropped in on Georgiana for a leisurely luncheon.

After their repast, his sister had led him through the new rose garden she was happily planning, using cuttings from many of Pemberley's oldest varieties. As they walked, a pleasant breeze had swirled around them, pressing Georgiana's gown against her form, making the swelling of her abdomen more visible.

Only a few weeks earlier, Georgiana and Fielding had joyously announced that they were expecting a baby, waiting to inform him until after she had felt the quickening. Darcy was very happy for them, though he was still getting used to the idea. His baby sister, soon to be a mother! There would be a new generation of Darcys, though not in name. He remembered holding her little hand in his everywhere they went together when she was small. Impulsively, he had taken hers as they strolled through her garden. She had glanced at him curiously but had squeezed his hand and gone back to describing her plans, before he returned to Pemberley.

He had deliberately stayed away from his study. Tomorrow he would attend to any correspondence that might be awaiting him, but the day had been too perfect to stay indoors. His steward had thoughtfully left out one letter for him. It was from Fitzwilliam.

After sending a message to the kitchen that he would take his tea out of doors, he took the letter to the west terrace, his preferred place to sit on fair afternoons. He knew exactly what this letter was about, and he wanted to make a little celebration of the reading of it.

When the tea and cakes arrived, he opened it. Sure enough, it was the announcement of the birth of Fitzwilliam and Lucy's first child. They had a son, and his name was Maxwell Darcy Richard Fitzwilliam.

My brother has already used my good father's given name for his eldest son, and it is my belief that there are too many confusing names in the Fitzwilliam line as it is. You and I have particular experience of this. Therefore, we have used Maxwell to honour Lucy's father. I most particularly wanted to honour you, my cousin and dearest friend, so I have used your name without asking your permission. Will you also do us the honour of acting as his godfather?

Our little man keeps us up at night. Although we do have a nurse and nursery maids, I reserve for myself the privilege of walking the floor with him in the small hours of the night, his tiny head on my shoulder, his wee body nestled against my chest.

For many years I never thought that I would have a home or a family of my own. It is thanks to you and your generosity that I do now. I shall never take either for granted…

Darcy read the letter again and again, his tea growing cool. He leant back in his chair, his moist eyes staring unseeingly at the green and golden grasses of the distant fields moving gently in the slight breeze. He rejoiced for his cousin and Lucy, as he did for Georgiana and her husband.

He had received yet another birth announcement only weeks before; that one from Bingley, announcing the arrival of their second daughter. Bingley was happy with his daughters and seemed to have no care whether his children were girls or boys.

Bingley had also informed him of the birth of a son to his sister, Lady Caroline Hicks. He had said that her husband, Sir Wilbur, was very happy and attentive with the child, and Lady Hicks was happy and attentive with the money and title she had received from their marriage bargain.

Darcy very much wished for children, but not as the result of a soulless contracted agreement. An heir, a precious little baby in exchange for riches and a title? He wanted children conceived in love. He wanted to be an involved parent, so unlike his own parents had been. Like the Fitzwilliams and the Fieldings would be.

He had recently turned one-and-thirty. At some point, he might have to start looking for another bride. His appetite vanished, and he rang for the tea tray to be taken away.

Elizabeth could not understand what Lieutenant Leonard was telling her. Where was Samuel?

The lieutenant had appeared at the door to the captain's quarters, his eyes wide, his face pale and pinched. "Mrs Bancroft, there has been an accident." He began babbling about lightning and the topgallant mast and sharp, splintered wood. She quickly darted past him and ran to the main deck.

The deck was still wet from the thunderstorm that had passed quickly overhead only a short time before. She could see sharp, shattered pieces of wood, torn sails, and a knot of crewmen clustered around an inert form lying on the deck. She moved towards them but was prevented from going any farther by Agueda's strong arms encircling her from behind.

"Missus, you mustn't go there," she said. "If you see him now, you'll regret it the rest of your days."

That was when she knew that her husband was dead.

The surgeon and his mate took charge of their captain's body, and Lieutenant Leonard returned to her. "Ma'am, it will be your decision as to how we prepare the captain's mortal remains. As you know, we would usually conduct a service and burial at sea. We are only a day or so away from landing in England. Do you wish to bury him ashore?"

Elizabeth agonised over the question all that night.

Only a few days before, Samuel had been chuckling over a letter from Mr Bennet. "Are you reading Papa's account of their encounter with Lord Upton and how he noticed Sarah's necklace? It is quite diverting!" she had asked him.

Her husband had looked up from his letter and smiled a wide, relaxed smile. "No, not that letter, though his story was indeed amusing. No, it is just that I have not felt part of a family for many years. Not since my parents died. Your family has made me feel that I belong. I look forward to spending more time with them when our voyage is over."

At that moment, she wanted to carry him back to Longbourn with her and put him to rest in the family cemetery, so she could sit with him and plant flowers on his grave.

The more she pondered, images of her husband flooded her mind. Samuel, walking the quarter deck, facing into the wind. Samuel, shouting orders over the roar of the guns or in a tropical storm. The expression of contentment and satisfaction on his face when he studied the set of the sails. How he could scurry up the rigging as quickly as any boy. The sea was his home, his true love. With great sadness, Elizabeth understood that he would wish to rest under the waves. The thought brought on more tears, but then it occurred to her that she could send a bit of herself with him.

The next morning, she took the little ivory miniature, the lover's eye that Alice had made for him. She reckoned it might soon disintegrate in the salt water, so she wrapped it with special care and put it inside the tightly constructed wooden box that the ship's carpenter had made for it. When her husband's body was brought on deck, she could not see his face. The surgeon had covered Samuel's head. He was neatly dressed in full uniform, as she had insisted. Samuel had been a dignified man, and she could see nothing dignified about being bundled naked into a woollen shroud. With tears streaming down her cheeks, she kissed his hands and tucked the tiny box into his inner breast pocket.

When the surgeon made as if to lead her away, she said to Lieutenant Leonard, "I wish to stay." The assembled officers looked at each other, but one by one, they nodded in agreement. Their heads bowed, hundreds of men, almost the entire crew, stood in complete silence on the deck. Only the sounds of the sea and the wind could be heard. The burial service was read, hymns were sung, and Captain Samuel Bancroft, her beloved friend, mentor, and protector, his body wrapped in sailcloth, silently slipped beneath the waves.