After arriving back at the splendid abode which belonged to the Earl of Matlock, Mrs Fitzwilliam retired to her own bedchamber in great expectancy. Ere long, just as she suspected, Colonel Fitzwilliam joined her in all that the phrase entailed. The frenzied lovemaking and consequent pleasurable emotions of the previous night were thus revisited, to the bride's satisfaction and the bridegroom's pride.

The same pattern of behaviour was repeated the following night, and the next...

And the next...

Elizabeth began to wonder if her nights would be so exceedingly busy her entire married life.

To her surprise, her afternoons began to be as busy as her nights. The moment her husband spied her in idle business, he would seek her favours with as much eagerness as a green lass. She got to learn the cracks of the ceiling of her bedchamber by heart and would employ some of the time she lay supine while her husband did his business, finding intricate patterns in the canopy of their bed, until the sublime moment in which, forgoing all other pursues, she was transported by the overwhelming commotion that was fulfilment.

Unsurprisingly, the newlyweds spent more time in their bedchambers than in any other room in blissful companionship, to the delight of lady Matlock, whose heart was bent to get a grandson as soon as possible, and the shock of Jane, whose job as a chaperone, she feared, had become compleatly obsolete.

The only period in which Mrs Fitzwilliam was not busy assuming her position as recipient of Colonel Fitzwilliam's consuming affection was the first hours of the day, for the simple reason that she slept in her bedchamber and he in his own. True, morrows were monotonous enough, but only until the occasion in which her husband made up his mind to stay the night with her in her bedchamber instead of returning to his own after the amorous rite, which proved to be the first of very busy dawns indeed. From then on, Elizabeth invariably woke up to find Fitzwilliam's morning pride firmly pressed to her bottom. Granted, her husband's passion needed no encouragement to burgeon like champagne from a bottle.

Of course, Mr and Mrs Fitzwilliam's days were full of other interesting pursuits as well, mind you, but none as tiresome as that which was effectively consuming most of their waking hours. Lady Matlock, for example, insistently engaged her new daughter in activities that entailed getting acquainted with the rest of the family and the properties belonging to them. It was widely known that the eldest son would become the Earl of Matlock one day, but Henry Fitzwilliam's wife, though happily married for more than eight years, had not begotten a son, and she was not getting any younger.

So, unless the aforementioned became with child in the near future and successfully provided the family with an heir (she had already brought five fine girls to the world), the job would fall onto Richard and Elizabeth. God forbid the title ended up in the hands of a next of kin. Indeed, if Fitzwilliam's ploughing continued as steadfastly as this, he would soon have harvest to pick.

In all his life, Fitzwilliam had never been so happy as his little wife had made him in the past few days. All earlier enjoyments, all former loves and courtships, all easy conquests of soldierly Adonis were quite tasteless when compared to the licit delights which of late he had relished. Never before had he found his parents' townhouse so pleasant a place in which to dwell, and no women's society had ever conjured away his melancholy with so little as a look. Ah, those lively, beautiful eyes of hers!

Jane witnessed her sister's first married days with mingled emotions. She was aware that Elizabeth's heart had not always been wholly with Colonel Fitzwilliam and was pleasantly surprised to see how well her sister had conquered her feelings. The Colonel's captivation for her sister was compleat. He simply worshipped the soil upon which she trod with all regard and admiration. That Elizabeth was the object of his exceedingly vigorous...mmm...regard, Jane had no doubt either.

Any reservations Jane might have had about her sister's marital felicity were promptly erased upon one encounter she had of a most unsettling nature. Jane, having excused herself from accompanying Lady Matlock to a walk into Bond Street, and increasingly bored to the core, entered the seemingly solitary library of the fine house in search of some sort of entertainment to kill her boredom. Yet, it appeared she was not the only one to have sought amusement in the aforesaid room, for while she was above the wooden stairs perusing the upper shelves, making up her mind between a tome of Milton's Paradise Lost, or Shakespeare's Sonnets, she heard a sound quite foreign to her delicate ears in the context of a library. It was a kind of hoarse groan that she was sure she had heard from swains upon being fed. Instinctively, she tilted her head to see who was on the other side that was making such a peculiar noise only to be confronted by the most mortifying sight she could have ever seen. There, in the throes of a most amorous bliss, Fitzwilliam and Elizabeth were engaged in connubial and decidedly carnal union.

With outstanding incredulity, Jane focused her chaste eyes to deny what they presented before them. But alas, that only served as confirmation, for she spied Fitzwilliam's buttocks amidst the tangle of Elizabeth's petticoats, and Jane's ears could not escape the sound of her sister's moaning from under his weight. By the time Jane's senses registered her brain's desperate command to avert themselves from the scene, it was too late. She had witnessed sufficient as to keep her entertained for several lonely nights. Mortified, she crouched against the shelves and closed her eyes, her hands tightly pressed against her ears.

Albeit the encounter had not failed to render her compleatly out of sorts, Jane experienced a momentous emotion. However improper the exercise on the other side of the library shelves, far from feeling mortally wounded, Jane's body suffered from an unknown yearning that she would hitherto find almost impossible to fight.

Whether said yearning stemmed from nascent womanly desires in being thoroughly awakened or the sight of her desirable brother-in-law's lush rear as it descended over her sister, the author will leave the readership to decide.

Of course, with such a passionate man's constant provocation, anyone could forget a past heartbreak.

Anyone...

The stage was being readied for a scene as old as time itself...

To add to Jane's befuddlement of emotions, she had taken to pass quite a long time in the company of Lady Matlock, while the newlyweds literary spent the hours above stairs. Evidently, the lady was exceedingly fond of her youngest, for there was nothing she would enjoy more than to proffer to the compliant Jane his every virtue. Ere long, sweet Jane began to feel...considerable warmth towards her brother-in-law. All that rattling on about him from his mother, added to his constant company and gallant manners, made quite an impression on the quondam unflappable Jane.

When she witnessed the scene in the library, she was done for. p>Hitherto, Jane found it difficult to sleep. Every single night, she lay on the mattress, tossing restlessly, in vain trying to erase the shameful images of Fitzwilliam's nakedness. Inevitably, and to her dismay, she had been compelled to be silent witness of the couple's lovemaking (though she did not peek from over the shelf not once more or take her hands from her ears for a second). The sounds Richard had elicited from Elizabeth spoke of delights she had no idea could be a wife's province. Obviously, she had been mistaken. From that day on, Jane would inevitably find her nights full of him: dreaming of him, sometimes even lying supine thinking of him. Without even touching her, her brother-in-law had awakened feelings in her that not even she knew were there: a hidden kiss on the corner of her lips, a burgeoning cry in the confines of her throat...

After countless such nights, she decided she would confront the obscure corners of her heart. Sitting up in bed she endeavoured to persuade herself that she had no feelings for her relative. It was only the excitement of the events and the unhappy happenstance that had her in such a fitful situation.

Granted, Colonel Richard Fitzwilliam was exceedingly handsome and all one could call charming and amiable. What was there not to admire? Any woman in possession of blood in her veins would find him highly desirable. In addition to all that, Jane had seen he was a loving husband to her sister. She reasoned that her feelings stemmed from proper admiration for the gentleman and decided not to give the matter another thought. She closed her eyes and went under the covers, begging the Lord for some sleep. Yet, when she finally dosed off, Richard's face came inevitably back to her in her dreams.

Likewise, Elizabeth's every thought were on her husband. The discovery of this side of him, that he could be the source of such a degree of sensual pleasure had left her spellbound. She thought she could leave her previous emotions for Mr Darcy behind, if only she could continue so well united to her husband.

Until one day...

It was in pursuit of remembering the various names of the Fitzwilliam ancestors that the unexpected happened. Elizabeth, Jane and Lady Matlock had crossed the whole house in one of the many tours they made of the premises, and entered a big room where the portraits of the family hung from the pristine walls. They went one by one, the grand lady repeating by heart the names of each ancestor and a short but detailed account of how the illustrious likeness had ended up in her house, until they reached a gallery were the portraits of the youths were on display.

Elizabeth found herself enthralled by the sight of a perfectly beautiful portrait of a young man of about twenty years of age on horseback. There was no way she could be mistaken. She could recognise that haughty pose anywhere. It was Mr Darcy, looking absurdly young and smiling down at her as she had countless times seen him smile whilst in her company. She stood in front of his portrait for the longest time in deep contemplation, searching his countenance as if she could elicit a word from him, until she felt the inquisitive look of her mother-in-law behind her.

"Oh, that is my nephew, Fitzwilliam Edward Darcy. It was drawn about eight years before."

"Oh, Lizzy! It is so very much like him!" exclaimed Jane.

"Do you know my nephew?"

Elizabeth coloured. "Yes," she answered terribly embarrassed.

"And do you not think him a very handsome man, girls?"

Jane noticed Elizabeth's discomfiture and went to her rescue. "Yes," she said. "Very handsome."

"I know none so handsome, or so kind." And Lady Matlock went on praising her nephew's good qualities with the same degree of emotion she had used to praise her youngest son. Every idea that she brought forward was favourable to his character, adding to Elizabeth's torture.

At length, Lady Matlock went on with another portrait, but Elizabeth did not listen, could no longer follow any of it. Before they quit the gallery, she returned to Mr Darcy's portrait. As she stood before the canvas on which he was represented, she remembered his regard with deep sentiment and was swept by the reminiscence of his warmth as he caressed her face, his impropriety in kissing her, and his avowal of everlasting love.

Overpowered by shame and vexation, Elizabeth was compelled to quit her mother-in-law's company. How was it possible that she could feel that way? She was married, happily married for God's sake! Those feelings were compleatly reprehensible. She must fight them at all cost lest they should ruin her present well-being.

However sincere the aspiration, she simply was not in command of her heart. To feel such fierce emotions for a man who was not her husband was ghastly. Vastly vexed and determined not to return to that gallery of torture in her life, she began to repair to her bedchamber claiming a headache. She would not give Mr Darcy another thought. Mr Darcy was undeserving of her regard. More so now that she was married. No, she would not think warmly of him.

When she was about to leave the room, however, she saw a small likeness of the same man, together with the likeness of several other young men she imagined must have been Richard's cousins. She was arrested by a terrible impulse to snatch it, which she did very quickly, and absconded with it amidst the folds of her skirt. Without a moment to lose, she proceeded to her bedchamber and there, in the solitude of her room, she produced the small picture and gazed at Mr Darcy's serious countenance painted on it at length. Taking it to her heart, she sighed.

Mr Darcy...

She went over to her bed and lay there with the picture still pressed to her heart. It occurred to her that he had not sent his congratulations to Fitzwilliam upon his marriage to her.

What could that mean? Did it mean anything? "This will not do. I must stop it!" She rose from bed and reached for her small trunk where she kept her personal possessions. There she hid the picture in the bottom of the trunk among her most cherished things.

When Colonel Fitzwilliam reached his commission in Spain, he was highly applauded by the youth of the corps when he was seen with the two beauties from Hertfordshire clinging to his arms. Already a champion among his officers, the good colonel rose immensely in the opinion of all these by his exceptional good taste in women. Mrs Fitzwilliam enjoyed the praise exceedingly well. She and Jane were no doubt the most beautiful ladies in the camp, and the most refined. Congratulations notwithstanding, Colonel Fitzwilliam was a little uncomfortable with the poor company these people afforded, for the officer's wives were not those with whom he would wish to surround his precious wife.

Howbeit zealously Fitzwilliam guarded both ladies, their simplicity and artless behaviour rapidly engaged the whole regiment in admiration. Jane was especially loved for her submissive nature. She smiled and blushed prettily every time she was addressed by the gallant officers. Therefore, it soon became the fashion among all the young fellows of Colonel Fitzwilliam's regiment to admire, nay, to adore his sister-in-law.

It was only when Mrs Wickham made her arrival on Spanish soil that every male head turned in her direction. She was twice the terrible flirt she had always been, and while she flirted so, her husband won every single farthing from those whom she cajoled into doubtful gaming. Still, they were very popular. But Colonel Fitzwilliam did his best to avoid their company.

However, Elizabeth and Jane had several opportunities to talk with their sister Lydia when they met occasionally.

"Guess who got married?" Lydia exclaimed after first seeing her sisters. "Oh, you will never guess, so I had better tell you." Making a pause for the sake of suspense, she then said almost in a whisper, "Mr Darcy."

On hearing Mr Darcy's name, Elizabeth was immediately impatient for more. Of course, she could not have found a more compliant informer. As soon as Lydia was sure she had her sisters' undivided attention, she proceeded to acquaint them with the details of the event. One of them, of course, was the name of the bride.

"His cousin? Miss Anne?" Elizabeth gasped in frank surprise.

"Indeed. They say she is a sickly creature, though I have not seen her myself. We were not invited, Wickham and I, which was quite vexing. After all Mr Darcy was Wickham's best man at our wedding."

"Mr Darcy? Mr Darcy was at your wedding?" repeated Elizabeth in utter amazement.

"Oh yes! He was to come to St Clement's with Wickham, you know. Have I not given you an account of my wedding? But gracious me! I quite forgot! I ought not to have said a word to you. I promised them so faithfully! What will Wickham say? It was to be such a secret!"

"If it was to be a secret then tell us no more. I shall not seek any more information for my part," Jane said, looking meaningfully at Elizabeth.

"Oh, certainly," said Elizabeth, though burning with curiosity. "We shall ask no more questions."

But to live in ignorance of such a point was impossible, or at least, it was impossible not to try for information. Mr Darcy had been at her sister's wedding. It was exactly a scene, and exactly among people, where he had least to do and least temptation to go. Conjectures as to the meaning of it, rapid and wild, hurried into her brain.

He must have played a more important role in the affair, which also meant that he must have acted following his feelings for her.

This intelligence left Elizabeth completely dumbfounded. So Mr Darcy must have been still in love with her by then. The idea was in itself preposterous, and there was precious little she could do to prevent her heart from sinking in the deepest of sorrows. What had his part been in her sister's wedding exactly? Was it possible that there had been a misunderstanding between them? Had she not encouraged him well enough? Did he still love her?

The only person in the world she thought she could ask about any particulars was her aunt. But how to write to her without risking that her letter was not read by any other? She was determined to know more about it, so she wrote in this manner,

You may readily comprehend what my curiosity must be to know how a person at that time so wholly unconnected with any of us should have being amongst you at such a time. Pray write instantly, and let me understand it, unless it is to remain in the secrecy which Lydia seems to think necessary.

Until Elizabeth had the satisfaction of a reply from her aunt she had no rest. But the contents of her aunt's letter threw her into a flutter of spirits, in which it was difficult to determine whether pleasure or pain bore the greatest share. Mr Darcy had in fact forwarded the match between her sister and Mr Wickham. He had followed them purposely in town, he had taken on himself all the trouble and mortification of the research, had frequently met, reasoned, and finally bribed the man whom he always most wished to avoid and whose very name was a punish for him to pronounce. He had done all this for a girl he hardly knew. No, no, of course not. Not for Lydia. Her heart did not fail when it whispered that he had done it all for her own sake.

Still a question remained unanswered. Why, then had he not returned for her?

It was a question only Mr Darcy himself could answer. She doubted her curiosity would ever be satisfied. But at least, she could rest assured that whatever the impediment, it had not been lack of affection. Such intelligence was a relief. For at least she could remember their past relationship with fondness, knowing that her love for him had not been unrequited, she had not loved in vain. It was painful, exceedingly painful to know that theirs would be a love story without a happy ending. But deep inside, she was proud. Proud that she had inspired in Mr Darcy such unselfish love that had elicited the best of him: Honour and compassion.

She rose from her seat and folded her aunt's letter several times and them put it away in the bottom of the little trunk where she had previously laid Mr Darcy's picture.

To be continued.

When the campaign was opened again and the troops were to march into Madrid, Elizabeth was well into her third month.

For the first time in his life, Colonel Fitzwilliam loathed to leave. He had witnessed his wife's painful first months of pregnancy and did not like what he had seen. She had fainted several times, had grown remarkably thinner, and refused to be properly nourished. In addition to that, she hardly slept at all, round greenish circles surrounded her eyes, and she wept for no reason whatsoever.

But there was no way Colonel Fitzwilliam could escape his duty. He was a man of honour above all. So he readied her family for their return to England and prepared his sojourn to the battlefield.

He took the longest time to say his goodbye to his beloved. His gravity became such that it was making the whole endeavour to leave even worse. "I am not afraid for myself," he confessed to his wife tenderly caressing her flat womb where he knew his seed had produced an incipient sprout. "But if a shot should finish me, I fear for those I am leaving behind me, whom I should wish to provide for."

Elizabeth, by a hundred caresses to his countenance, and the most kind and felt professions of love, tried to soothe his feelings.

"You must go home at once. Understand? Do not linger one minute," he said a bit concerned. "Here are three hundred pounds. That will suffice until you reach home. Now listen. Do not cry, woman. I must talk to you. This is important. If I fall, you must know I have loved you more than anything. Listen. You and the child shall want nothing. My father has given me word to provide for you. If this one is a boy, and I am sure it is a boy, he will probably be the next Earl of Matlock. That in itself will secure your well-being." He was in such sad concern for his wife's future that he had not realised he was treating her as if she were already his widow.

And so, struggling to see how he could make sure his wife would not be wanting anything if an accident befell him, our dear colonel dressed himself in his oldest and shabbiest uniform with something like a prayer on his lips for his family better than for himself. The moment he said his last farewell, he pressed her to his beating heart, taking her up from the ground, holding her in his arms for several minutes. When he finally broke the embrace, both were on the verge of tears, quite red in the face, eyes brimming. Without further words, he put her down and left her.

Bellow the stairs, another woman awaited her farewell. But this one could not hope for a similar adieu. No. She would have to content herself with a shake of hands or in the best of cases a chaste kiss on her cheek. Jane trembled with the idea that Richard might not return. Love had obtained the mastery over her emotions and she found she could hold her feelings no more. So, when Richard reached her to bid her goodbye, she pressed herself on his chest and gave way to crying.

"Why, Miss Bennet. I may live to vex you and your sister yet."

"Oh, do not speak lightly of it, Fitzwilliam. I cannot bear it."

"Dearest Miss Bennet. Do you suppose I feel nothing? I tremble to know I am leaving you both here. You must promise you will leave at once. Do not wait for my return."

She nodded, and he kissed her hands and was ready to leave her. But she clung to his coat and begged him in a feeling manner, "Oh, but you will take care, will you not, Richard?"

"Of course I will," he said reassuringly. "Still, you know, redcoats make a deuce of a good mark for a shot. It is no laughing matter that. Look here. If I drop, you must stay with your sister in Matlock and help her with her maternity."

"You needn't tell me that. I shall take care of her."

"I thank you. Do it for me."

"For you, Richard."

"I must go, now Miss Bennet. We march in a quarter of an hour. Mind you, you are to stir from this town as soon as the regiment is gone."

"Oh Richard, I must tell you something before you go."

He looked at her in expectancy, imagining she would pass her some intelligence regarding Elizabeth. He was in no way prepared for such a declaration.

"I...I love you."

He was so surprised by her confession that he did not react immediately. Instead, he remained there, nailed to the floor, trying to come to terms with her words.

"Jane. What are you saying?"

"I love you. I do."

"Jane."

"I know, I know. I just wanted you to know before you go."

"Jane, I..."

"Hush. Do not say anything. Now you can go."

But before he could turn to leave, she rose on tiptoes and pressed her lips against his, wishing she could melt in his arms as she was sure her sister had a few minutes before. And as quickly as she did so, she let go of him and rushed to the kitchen where she could hide herself from his departure.

The town was quite quiet when the regiments, at the sound of the stirring call to battle, marched away. Despite the fact that Colonel Fitzwilliam had made it clear he wished his family back in England as soon as the regiment had retired, Jane, with Lizzie half invalided, and being left in command of the house, lingered on. The loyal servants who remained by their mistresses' sides made oaths to helped them come what may, for who could come near kind and gentle Jane without feeling touched by her sweetness and affectionate nature? Elizabeth, in turn, remained locked in her room the greater part of the day. The pregnancy, though still not evident to the eye, had brought all sorts of maladies to the young lady, from physical discomforts of a well-known nature to melancholy of the severest sort. Her poor soul grew so low in spirits after her husband's departure that she actually stopped eating at all. She had to be nursed into nourishment by cook, who had taken upon herself the care of the young ladies as though they were her own children.

Poor cook did not know what to do to ease the ladies' pain. Wouldst that she could bring back the rosy complexion to Mrs Fitzwilliam's cheeks! Elizabeth clung to cook and Jane for support, for the cruel grief that had gripped her heart tormented her every waking hour. Yet Jane was not fit to the task of consoling her sister after Fitzwilliam's departure. She herself was in terrible need of consolation.

Though Elizabeth was disturbed in spirit, in no way did her distress match that of her sister. Everyone thought her torment stemmed from fear for Elizabeth's wellbeing. But in truth, Jane was most painfully suffering the hammering of her own conscience.

She had seen her beloved depart, perhaps never to see him return, and carried the burden of their last exchange in which she had confessed to him her feelings, even... Oh for shame! She trembled at the memory. She had kissed him! The sole idea rendered her powerless. With horrible remorse, she remained for hours, silent, motionless, and haggard, by the windows in which she had placed herself to watch the regiments as they marched away, until the last bayonet had disappeared from her sight.

Only when cook asked her whether she should pack the pans and pots in such and such a trunk, did Jane realise they should be preparing to leave. But leave they could not, for Lizzie would not bear the journey in a carriage, let alone a boat. So stay they must, and Jane was relieved that at least she would be able to hear news of Fitzwilliam's faring sooner than in London

It was with the first light of dawn on the fourth day after the regiments had left that the first canons in Madrid began to roar. The dreadful sound shattered both Jane and Elizabeth's souls, as it disturbed every prayer that had been sent to Heaven on behalf of the soldiers. All that day, from morning until past sunset, the canon never ceased to boom, and its perpetual terror sent the small congregation of wives into cowardly emigration. Lydia was among the first to fly. Mrs O'Hara, the Major's wife, whose company Jane and Elizabeth had courted while the regiments were still settled in town, came by to bid them farewell, for everyone was flying, knowing that every minute they wasted in hesitation would only render their situation more dangerous.

When they received news that the French had prevailed upon the English in Madrid, Jane and Elizabeth found themselves the only English in town. Mercifully, cook had made friends with some peasants in the country, and these very readily offered their help to hide the genteel Englishwomen in case the French should come, which they did, and with them the news that Fitzwilliam's regiment had been forced to retreat to Portugal.

After some time, the enemy left, and a deadly silence resumed its empire over the town, remaining hushed as a desert after the French soldiers abandoned it.

Jane and Elizabeth with their small retinue, returned to the hotel. Little did they imagine the state in which they would find their belongings. What had not been taken, had been either burned or broken to pieces. They had no more clothes but those with which they had run away; and, of course, they had no food, no money, and no one to look after them but good old Spenser. Both the horses and harness Fitzwilliam had left them for their journey to the coast to take a ferry were gone, too. They found the carriage remnants broken in pieces a few yards from the house. But, by some act of providence, the mare had escaped and returned to its original owners.

There was no hope from that quarter then. They would have to remain in Spain and live on their small pittance, which they had been wise enough to hide with them, or on such aid as the good peasants could give them, unless they could find a way to remove themselves to Portugal and find Fitzwilliam's regiment. But Elizabeth could still not be moved, for these small movements which she had been compelled to make while changing quarters had caused her a little bleeding and there was no way they could consult a surgeon there. Fortunately, cook was quite experienced in matters of pregnancy and recommended that Mrs Fitzwilliam keep to her bed.

Jane, however, knew they could not merely wait to be miraculously rescued. Something must be done before their almost nonexistent sources of food were gone.

"I shall ride the mare and find Fitzwilliam," thought she. Accordingly, she readied her mount and went to talk to Elizabeth, who was still in bed.

"It's too dangerous," cried the mother-to-be.

"Yet, it cannot be helped. Suppose the enemy arrive again. I must go. Spencer, cook and Abigail will take care of you."

"Why do you not send Spencer?"

"He knows not a word in Spanish or French. He shall get lost. No. It must be me. But fear not, little sister. I shall return with Fitzwilliam. I promise."

Yet, six months after this conversation, Jane had not returned. Poor Elizabeth was in a sorrow so profound and pitiable that her heart was bleeding in grief. The day came, however, when the poor girl had to face the end of her confinement. She had no Jane to press her hand or assist her during the terrified moments of delivery and no husband to pace the halls as her pains increased. With indescribable wonder, and unseemly terror, Elizabeth finally gave birth to a child, a little boy, a miracle of life amidst the horrors of war that brought tears to everyone's eyes and hope of better times to his mother's heart.

When the fighting finally came to an end and Bonaparte had been sent to his prison on Elba, Elizabeth knew she could no longer hope for her family to return by themselves. They must have been killed or in the best of cases fallen into the hands of the enemy. With great trepidation and tears in her eyes, she set herself the task of asking Fitzwilliam's family to come to her aid.

The lady in a dripping brown bonnet was now kissing one of Darcy's hands with all her might, while the other he employed in holding her trembling body to his. She was mumbling some unintelligent words...you came...at last...and applying soft kisses to his large hand in an absurd manner. The rain was a perfect excuse to keep her under his cloak, a privilege afforded by the weather, which gave Mr Darcy a degree of pleasure mingled with pride that was impossible to explain in words. He helped her walk, shielded to his side by his cloak from the bitter rain, until they reached the Custom-house precincts. They issued out of it still holding each other, clinging to each other as if they would never let go until they found a carriage. Once inside, she emerged, drenched and dishevelled, from beneath his cloak, still keeping a tight hold of Mr Darcy's hand and looking up intently at his face, full of sadness.

"I thank you for coming. I knew you would."

"How did you know I was coming today?" he asked still bewildered by all the activity.

"I did not. I came every day to wait for you."

They spoke no more. Elizabeth (for the lady in the dripping bonnet was indeed, Mrs Fitzwilliam) put her head on his shoulder, cooing warmly within his embrace, like a cat close to the fireplace. Mr Darcy's heart was more confused than ever, yet full of tender love and pity for the creature whose hand he kept close to his heart. She was still holding his other hand as if afraid to let it go.

They arrived at Elizabeth's dwelling with the last light of day. She was shivering with cold. Ever so gently, Darcy helped her out of the carriage and took her inside the house. There seemed to be no one else there. She searched for a candle while he put an extra log on the dying fire and stirred it with a poke.

"You had better change those drenched clothes, lest you catch a cold," he warned her. She nodded and was gone but soon returned, changed into a cotton dress that looked like a nightshift and a large shawl that covered her completely. She took him to a small kitchen and insisted on preparing supper for him, fussing a great deal over it, offering everything she happened to have, which was not much. He would not have it and persuaded her that he would be satisfied with tea and some buttered bread, which she prodigiously had, given the severe circumstances in which she found herself. At length, she sat at the other end of the table. Silent and in great discomfort, smaller and thinner than ever, she remained sitting, waiting for him to say something.

But he could find nothing to say. The only thing he wanted to do was hold her in his arms again as he had done in the carriage, but he had no right.

She did not have to wait long, however, for Mr Darcy, though profoundly overwhelmed, was full of curiosity.

"Pray. Tell me how you have fared."

"First of all, I must thank you."

"I have not done anything yet. I cannot promise you anything."

"I know. This is not London. Richard will not be so easy to spot as Lydia."

"So you know."

"I do. I know it is a bit late, but I must thank you on behalf of my family for what you did for my sister on that occasion. My father does not know to who he is in debt."

"Your family owes me nothing." Mr Darcy blushed greatly at this reminiscence and was glad when a lady that was holding a baby called Elizabeth. It gave him time to think of what to say.

When she returned, he said hastily. "I would have thought your aunt could keep a secret."

"It was not my aunt who betrayed your confidence but my sister Lydia. She told me everything about a year ago. But then it was too late."

The implications of her words did very little to ease Mr Darcy's mind. He knew perfectly well what she meant. But he could not find words to tell her about the events that had prevailed on that occasion, about his terrible pain when he learnt that his thoughtlessness had in fact contributed to the fall of Lydia, that he had thought that the woman he loved would never look at him with respect again. He had failed her and, what was even worse, had not been man enough to face his mistakes. His pride, his abominable pride, had prevailed.

"Why are you here? I cannot believe Fitzwilliam brought you here," he said bitterly.

"Do not speak ill of him."

"Forgive me. It was not my intention."

"They are not dead. I am certain. We must find them."

"Them?"

She told him her history; how they had been obligated to forgo her husband's instructions to leave Spain when the French invaded Madrid in August on account of her weakness, and how Jane had followed the regiments to Portugal, never to come back, and how the baby had come earlier than expected. Strangely enough, Elizabeth did not cry while telling him her tale. She had no more tears to shed.

Darcy listened to her every word with great attention, every now and then sending her a look of reproach, but dared not say a word against the course of actions she had chosen. When he learned of Miss Bennet's disappearance, of which he knew nothing, he was visibly grieved and shocked, for, having heard all sorts of horrible tales about the inhumanities performed on maidens by soldiers, he immediately feared Jane could have ended in the hands of the Turks.

Still, he said nothing, always listening attentively, at times holding her hand when a difficult passage came.

"Why did you not return now that the war is over?"

"And leave Jane and my husband here? No, I could not."

"But the baby..."

Elizabeth made a pause. There was pain in her face, a pain that Darcy recognised as his own. "My baby takes after his father. He is brave and good, and can bear whatever his father and I can," she said almost breathlessly. Yet Elizabeth's head sunk after this admission. Her head went down to her bosom and her hands up to her eyes. But still she did not cry.

Darcy was speechless. He could not bear her wretchedness.

Raising her head, she inhaled deeply and endeavoured to look cheerful, "I heard you got married, too." Struggling with her true feelings, Elizabeth smiled, trying to change the topic of conversation.

Darcy sighed. How to pass her the intelligence of yet more sorrow? Had she not had enough? Could she have room in her heart for his painful tale? In the end, he told her his story, though he spared her the details of Anne's death.

"Georgiana adores her," he said talking of his daughter, a thin smile curving his lips at the thought of his progeny. "But she is simply overwhelmed with her."

"Poor souls. To think that both of them have been left without mamas."

"Indeed it is heartbreaking. Yet very much like your boy, Emily seems to bear it with boldness. She not even says the word. Perhaps it is simply that she has not heard it being told to anyone."

"But at least she has you."

Darcy chuckled. "Oh yes. But she insists on calling me 'brother'."

Despite herself, Elizabeth laughed. He laughed too.

"Then you should tell your daughter who you really are."

"Certainly. Unfortunately, a man cannot spend as much time with a baby girl as a woman can, lest she learn horse riding sooner than embroidering. So I try to be present when she's being fed, and at bed time. Georgina is always present at those hours. My sister calls me 'brother,' so Emily imitates her. But she used to say 'papa' when she was learning to say her first words. In fact those were precisely the very first words she said."

"That is reassuring."

They fell into an uncomfortable silence after this last exchange. Darcy could not help but think that, were his cousin dead, he would offer his widow his hand as soon as her mourning had passed. His heart ached with the thought. He loved his relative and did not wish him evil. But the happenstance that had befallen him was not his fault. Darcy loved this woman more than his life and would do anything to provide for her and her child until he could gather news either of his cousin's survival or of his death. Until that time, however, he must keep his countenance and refrain from further shows of affection.

"Are you ready to go home, now?"

"Without my husband and sister, sir?"

"Elizabeth...please. What good is there in your staying? You must exercise submission now. I am here because you sent for me. You must trust me. I shall be able to search much better knowing you and the child are safe at home. What I wish is that you go to Pemberley with my sister. You can stay there until I have found your sister and your husband. I would be immensely grateful if you could help Georgiana with Emily while I do my search."

Elizabeth stared at him with a look of wonder. Pemberley? Oh, the thought brought horrible anguish to her heart. Going to Pemberley? What was the meaning of it? Could her heart betray her in this horrible manner when her own husband could be lying on his face with a bullet through his heart and Jane could be missing forever? How could she dare imagine herself in the beautiful grounds of Pemberley and in Mr Darcy's arms when her heart should be mourning for so much? Perhaps, she had already given up all hope. Perhaps she had mourned her loss in her soul long enough. The idea of going to Pemberley simply filled her with elation. But she could not show she was eager to accept. She must keep her countenance. So she dropped her head and almost indistinguishably said, "Very well. I shall go if that is what you wish."

I suppose there are few men in this world of ours who would not bend their knees in front of a suffering woman. And Darcy was not foreign to the sentiment - especially when said martyr was the woman he loved. Ever since Elizabeth had parted with her husband and sister, now both presumably dead, she had lived stupefied under the pressure of her sorrow. Only the arrival of Darcy had rescued her from the dark pitch in which catastrophe had trapped her. She received his friendship and kindness with profound relief and gratitude, in the secret certainty that nothing but sincere and unselfish love had inspired the gentleman to come to her aid. Indeed, he had placed himself at her feet and she was sure that, should she decide to trample upon him, he would not complain one bit, ready as he was to put the world at her disposal without asking anything in return.

Even though Elizabeth had fallen in love with Mr Darcy long before her marriage to Colonel Fitzwilliam, presently she could only think of her husband and sister's whereabouts. If anything, Elizabeth was loyal. Her heart might have bled for Fitzwilliam Darcy in the past, but it bled for her husband now. Acutely so. Still, although she would not accept anything but friendship from her new cousin William, as she called him, she wished to keep him by her side. He must give her everything but she would give him nothing. It was a bargain not infrequently levied in love stories.

Two weeks had passed since Elizabeth and Darcy's re-encounter took place ? two weeks in which they lived in pleasant companionship in the company of a few servants. But now it was time for Elizabeth to journey back to England. The parting between them caused both parties such pain that everyone who witnessed the event thought them to be a husband and wife forced into separation. That they loved each other was clearly written on their faces.

Darcy reckoned Elizabeth, to say the truth, had not encouraged him to pursue nothing but her friendship during his stay with her in the continent. Yet he was of the mind that Elizabeth was exceedingly attached to him, and that only her uncertain marital state stood between them. As for himself, his English habit, pride, and severity perhaps had prevented him from saying anything about his true feelings. He was too self-composed, too honourable to try anything else. Besides, Fitzwilliam's demise was still dubious. Yet the passionate love Darcy had for Elizabeth, his hunger for her touch might well have surpassed his capacity for restraint, and only his strong sense of honour had prevented his trespass of the door to her sleeping accommodations on those weary nights they had dwelled under the same roof for a fortnight.

Darcy's object in insisting on Elizabeth's journey to England was to the effect of securing her wellbeing and that of his cousin's only son. He was certain that, should Colonel Fitzwilliam have been able to communicate with him ere the misfortune befell him, he would have asked Darcy to take his family back to England, as it had been his wish in the first place.

Darcy had no doubt that Elizabeth was a widow. What else could have prevented such a love-struck husband as Richard from returning to the arms of his wife? So, with little hope of finding his cousin or Miss Bennet alive, Darcy began his search as soon as Elizabeth's boat was lost on the horizon.

Many of the brave soldiers who had suffered severely upon the days of action were still in Spain, recovering from their wounds. Spanish cities had become vast military hospitals after the battles; and, as men and officers began to rally from their wounds, public places began to swarm with warriors, young and old, who, just rescued from death, were eager to indulge in gambling, gaiety and lovemaking. To those Darcy went over to enquire after his missing cousin and friend.

"Were you in Colonel Fitzwilliam's company?" was the repetitive question upon Darcy's lips. One after the other, he conducted a survey among every officer, putting a guinea in every hand that could offer information. Soon, word was spread among the impoverished officers, desperate to grasp a guinea to afford their hunger for distraction, that Colonel's Fitzwilliam cousin was arrived and what a freehanded, generous gentleman he was.

Darcy had already lost all hope of finding Fitzwilliam when a voice startled him with information.

"He was my colonel, sir."

Darcy looked at the soldier who was reposing on a stone bench in a public garden and went up to him immediately and sat trembling by his side, his use of the preterit occasioning terrible uneasiness in his innermost feelings.

"Do you have any news of him?"

"Who asks?"

"I am his cousin, sir. And I am searching for him on behalf of his wife."

The man lifted his unwounded hand and touched his cap sadly and respectfully. "The whole army did not contain a finer or better soldier," the man said. "The captain of the colonel's company is in town. He might be in possession of some information regarding the colonel. Your honour might want to see him."

Darcy put a guinea into the soldier's hand and told him he should have another if he would bring the captain to his address, a promise that very soon brought both of them to Mr Darcy's presence.

On speaking with the captain, Darcy learned that Fitzwilliam had already been considered lost in action, but his corpse had not been found to that day, the cannon having done its worst. The man broke out into a rhapsody of praise for the disappeared colonel. No other soldier in all England had been so good at charging on horseback, no other colonel had been so generous and loyal towards those who were under his command. All that was said was true, but could scarcely lessen the suffering Darcy felt in his heart. This was his cousin about whom they were talking. They had been playmates, friends and sometimes even confidantes. All their lives together passed in front of him. To think that he would see him no more! What a dreary mourning affected Darcy's soul!

Alone in the small carriage Darcy had rented to move about the country, he sighed, recollection of the day he had parted from Elizabeth still coming painfully to his mind. Elizabeth. What to say to her? What words could he find to convey such tragic news? Darcy trembled at the idea of the task before him. Poor child! He would never come to know his father!

But his mind came to Elizabeth again. How changed from the fresh and comely girl he had held so passionately in his arms one evening in London! Her face was no longer glowing with happiness. She was thin and pale. Her beautiful brown hair was parted under a marriage cap, which would be soon be replaced by a widow's cap. Her eyes... Her eyes had lost their brilliance and life. They were so full of life in the past and now they were fixed and looking nowhere, except when Darcy had dared look into them. That was the only moment they regained their lively spark.

To think that she would be compelled to keep mourning for two long years, the poor child! Darcy felt his heart shrink. But he would make things right for her. He would be her son's father. As soon as her mourning was over he would marry her, and make her happy. He would return the life to those beautiful eyes. Nothing would come between them now. Nothing.

Despite Darcy's wish that she would reside at Pemberley, Elizabeth and her son stayed in London at her husband's house in the company of the Earl and his wife. Needless to say, the elder couple was torn with uncertainty regarding their youngest son's fate. The arrival of their daughter-in-law and grandson became their only source of consolation. How her ladyship nurtured that child! How she both laughed and wept over it! Richard might be gone, but a little cherub had come to replace him! It had his eyes, his nose, and his smile! What a miracle it was to hear it cry or laugh!

The Earl of Matlock was enchanted by the creature too. It was he who insisted that the baby and his mother stay with them. To see him holding the infant, and to hear Lady Matlock's laughter as she watched him, did Elizabeth great good. Much as she had wished to be removed to Mr Darcy's place, she just could not take the child away from his grandparents. They spent many hours in the fashionable streets of London, in the purchase of cups, spoons, and pap-boats for little Richard. They enveloped the delicate and unaware creature with love and worship such as God's marvellous care had only awarded to wretched, mourning hearts.

After what seemed an eternity for Darcy, he finally returned to England, bearing the burden of having failed to find Miss Bennet and the even more tragic outcome of his investigation over Fitzwilliam's fate. Yet on seeing Elizabeth's better looks, he cheered a bit. She had gained weight, and the pink in her cheeks spoke of a speedy recovery. Still, she had to go through many a difficult time, facing her family with the disappearance of Jane. Darcy was determined to stay close to her and, with that purpose in mind, took residence in his townhouse in London.

I suppose the Earl and her Ladyship saw through the intentions of Darcy the minute he came back from Europe for, after conveying his devastating news, their nephew did not show any intention of returning to his own family in Derbyshire but stayed to mourn with his relatives. He visited the Matlock townhouse daily and stayed for hours with them, or with the exceedingly suffering Elizabeth. He brought, on one pretext or another, presents to her and the baby, who was scarcely six months old, most of which were entirely premature for the infant: a wooden horse, a trumpet and other warlike articles that, according to Darcy, would remind the child whose son he was ? the son of a brave man of arms.

Although Richard's parents knew that the match between their son's widow and their nephew was as inexorable as the nascent sun the following day, still they could not help feeling a little annoyed. After all, Richard had been missing for less than a year. It was not until they stood in front of the stone in memory of Richard that they began to resign themselves to their youngest son's demise.

The sight of the stone, bearing the well-known and pompous Fitzwilliam arms, agitated Elizabeth's nerves, too ? so much so that she was compelled to leave the churchyard before the parson's words were finished, sobbing in her deep grief. Darcy was instantly tempted to follow her, but was prevailed upon to remain by his uncle's side at the head of the funeral gathering.

As the party, which included Elizabeth's family from Longbourn, finally broke, a persistent drizzle began to fall, and everyone left the cemetery to find shelter from the rain. Darcy went in search of Elizabeth with an umbrella. He found her seated on a bench amidst the stones in the back of the churchyard and sat beside her, sporting a huge open umbrella that easily protected them both. He watched her weep in silence.

"Elizabeth. What can I do to ease your pain?" he finally said when she failed to regain her composure. "Hush," said she, and she held out her hand, smiling between her tears. "You cannot have done more."

Taking the slender hand, he gently pulled her to him. "There is nothing I would not do for you, dearest Elizabeth."

"Dear William," she sighed. Her hand reached his cheek almost mechanically, and her tender caress made Darcy wish he could freeze time and stay there with her forever. But the soft drizzle soon turned into heavy rain. Darcy hated to ruin the moment but they must go lest they should drown under the rain.

"You are going to catch your death. Let us find some shelter." With that, he signalled to an abandoned Grecian summerhouse that serendipitously stood a few yards from the cemetery. Thither they rushed hand in hand.

"Heavens! We are sodden!" she gasped.

"Pray. Are you cold?" Darcy asked, concerned for her. "Please take my coat."

"Oh, no, William. I thank you. I shall be fine."

"I insist." Removing his coat, he presently wrapped her with it, but his hands lingered on her shoulders a bit. She rubbed her cheek on his hand and closed her eyes.

"Thank you," she said feelingly.

Darcy could not contain himself any more. He leaned his head closer and was about to kiss her on the lips when she recoiled.

"I...I beg your pardon," he stammered, embarrassed.

"No, I believe it is my fault. I am sorry."

"No. I am sorry. I did not mean to... I really am sorry."

"Don't be. It is just that I am not ready. You have been such a good friend. God! How good you have been to little Richard and to me," she muttered.

"And I am willing to do yet so much more," he whispered with passion in his voice.

She lowered her eyes and pursed her lips. "I know. But I cannot stay here any longer. I am going away, William."

Darcy panicked. "Going away? Where are you going?"

"My mother needs me. And my father, too. Jane is missing because of me. I feel so guilty. I know there is nothing I can do to bring her back, but at least I shall be some source of consolation for my mother."

"I see."

"I will write to you."

"No." Pressing her hand against his chest he declared, "There is no need for you to write. I shall go with you."

"You are always good and kind, William. But it is to me that the task falls this time. My family is too miserable. I must go to them and stay with them."

"And so you shall. But I shall go with you. I shall not part with you this time, Elizabeth. And as soon as your mourning is..."

"Hush!" she ordered him. "Do not dare allude to that!"

Darcy frowned. He had not expected resistance on her part. "Elizabeth. Someone must take care of you. And you know there is nothing I would not..."

"Oh please, William. Say no more!"

"Why do you insist in prolonging your suffering?"

"You cannot expect me to..."

"Why not?" he interrupted her. "You must think of your child. He needs a father. And there is also Emily. She needs a mother, too. I am certain you shall love her."

Elizabeth sighed. He was right. But the pain in her heart...the certainty that she had caused her family suffering did not allow her to ponder her future. Darcy did not see her hesitance in that light. Taking a step towards her, he pressed her hand to his cheek. "God knows I need you, Elizabeth."

She blushed uncontrollably. Seeing that he was winning her over, he gathered courage and went on.

"I think that Richard's memory will not be injured by the way in which I intend to provide for his widow and the mother of his son. I loved Richard as a brother would, but it is not wise to cling to the past. It would be equal to cherishing a fantasy."

"William. I am not clinging to Richard's memory. But it is too soon. I would feel I am betraying him."

"In marrying my cousin's widow, I would not be doing anything wrong! On the contrary ? I know he would approve."

She shook her head. "But I have other objections. You know I have."

"What?"

"Do you think I can marry again after I have ruined for ever the happiness of a most beloved sister?"

"I do not understand. Of what are you talking?"

"Can you not see? Jane is dead and I am alive! She left no child! I was left with a child who will be the Earl of Matlock one day and thus securing my future. Jane never married the man she loved. I married a wonderful man but Jane...well, she spent her last days witnessing my happiness while she was miserable! I have been so selfish! I have had everything and she has never had anything! And she died protecting me!"

"You are being too hard upon yourself. You have nothing to do with your sister's happenstance."

"Oh you are mistaken. I am to blame. And I am to pay for it."

Darcy lost his patience. In a state of great indignation, he wildly blurted out the first words that came to his mind. "Am I to pay for it, too?"

"William! You don't mean that! All the blame falls on me! I must show some repentance."

"By refusing to be happy again? You are condemning me to unhappiness as well! Have I loved you and watched you in vain? Will you deny me my own portion of happiness and bear another person's sad fate on your shoulders?"

Elizabeth felt not a little scared when Darcy faced her with such a speech. Was she being selfish?

"I once told you I admired you and loved you. My feelings remained unchanged even when I knew you married my cousin. I knew all along that the prize of your love was too high for me to pay. But destiny has willed us to come together again. By Jove! I know you loved your husband...you still cling to his memory... But do not tell me I have fooled myself when I believed you attached to me. I know you are. I can see it in your eyes even now."

Elizabeth struggled with the most painful confusion. "You are not mistaken. I am deeply attached to you. It would be a folly to deny it. But I cannot reconcile myself to live happily ever after when those I loved will not. At least not just yet. If I did anything to encourage you, I am sorry. Believe me. It was unconsciously done."

"No. I will not have it. You will not draw as apart."

"I am sorry, William. I am leaving for Longbourn with my parents tomorrow, and you must go to your family, too."

"Is this your final reply?"

"Yes. I have thought about this ever since I came back from the continent, and I think it is the best for all of us. I am very sorry to cause you pain."

"Pain? Elizabeth, I have been in agonies ever since I met you!"

"Pray, William. Let us remain civil."

"Civil? Are you laughing at me? After all I have gone through for you? God, I was a fool!"

"William. I am astonished at you! This is not the moment to discuss all this!"

He gave a sad laugh. "I am amazed I have not learned to read you, Elizabeth. After all this time in your company, I should have known better. Perhaps Byron was right after all."

"Byron?"

"He once warned me about..." he trailed off.

"You talked about me to Byron?"

He did not answer but went on venting his anger. "What a bargain! You have toyed with me to an excess. This is the second...no, the third time you have rejected me. But it shall be the last. I shall bargain no more."

"For shame, Mr Darcy! I have never known you to speak like this! You cannot expect me to?"

"It is not your devotion to your sister and husband's memories that moves you. That is but the pretext. I fear if you do not accept me now, it is simply because you do not love me with the same force I have devoted to you." He stared at her eyes searchingly, desperately trying to extract the truth from them. "Tell me, Elizabeth. Are you unworthy of my love?"

He looked so helpless, almost bereft. God, how much she loved that man! Could she pain him when he had been so good to her? Had he not shown her in every possible way that he only wished to protect her? Bearing his desperate look no more, she buried her face in his lapels and almost disappeared into his arms. "No!" she cried. "I love you! I do!"

Darcy kissed her hair with the greatest devotion. That was the reaction he had hoped for. That was the Elizabeth he loved.

"Then nothing remains to be said," he whispered into her ear. "We shall wed next Christmas, in a year's time. But in the meantime I shall be your son's guardian and yours too."

Those back in peaceful London City soon forgot the horrors of the war on the Continent, engrossed as they became with their own affairs. Despite the noble sentiments that attached it to her late husband, Elizabeth's heart had been always Darcy's. Granted, Darcy himself was a fool when it came to Elizabeth. Ever since she agreed to be wedded to him in a year's time, he became her shadow. In no time, word of their allegedly secret engagement was spread, but truth be told they could not care less. They were together at last. There was nothing to stop them from being soon united in marriage. Not even the memory of those who were no more, I am sad to say. But I am sure that you, excellent reader, have not forgotten about them and that many of you would be thoroughly disappointed not to have any news of those who were left behind.

Indeed I have no heart, dear reader, to deny you an account of Richard and Jane's fate, however sad. Yet to go through such a story we must once again go back in time and return to the fields of Spain.

As crowds ran to Madrid gate to avoid confrontation with the French, the merchants closed their shops, women rushed to the churches and chapels, and people simply crowded the streets. The dull sound of the cannon came rolling and rolling while carriages with innumerable travellers hurried out of town. But to some, fleeing was not an option. Instead, as alarm began to take entire possession of their minds, they were compelled to bear witness to the horrors to come.

Undoubtedly, Napoleon had won the battle. The British were said to have performed prodigies of courage, and withstood for most of the onset of the whole French army. Yet at some point they had been overwhelmed, and for a moment it had seemed nothing would rescue the English from the butchery to come. Indeed, a great part of Richard's regiment lay helplessly in the battlefield while the rest had miraculously fled towards Portugal.

When the noise of cannonading was over, however, wagons and country carts laden with wounded began to come rolling into town, ghastly groans coming from within the carts. Miss Jane Bennet, who had been sent on a wild and impossible mission to find her brother-in-law, take him out of the battlefield and back into Elizabeth's arms, prepared herself for the difficult task that lay at her door. Wild with terror, Jane knew not how or where to seek Richard.

As I was saying, when the infamous noise of the gun and cannon was over, Jane tried to gallop onto the battlefield, but her mare had not had a minute to rest and had grown excessively weary. Consequently, it took her precious time to get to the place. Until then, Jane had had the feeling that everything had gone according to plan. She had successfully traced Richard's regiment's movements, but the sight that she was now beholding left her almost spiritless. Hundreds of soldiers that could not be moved, all of them drenched in blood and pain, were being carried on all sorts of stretchers into improvised hospitals that consisted of precariously laid tents, in which nothing further than homemade bandages were offered to heal their wounds. With painful curiosity, Jane peered into those tents only to be confronted with strange haggard faces looking up at her from their straw beds.

All that day from morning until past sunset, Jane never ceased to look for Richard. It was dark when she stopped all of a sudden out of weariness. Standing in the middle of what seemed a sea of living corpses, she looked around in despair as she felt that all her courage abandoned her. She was not alone. With the first stars, many teeth traders* and robbers that usually followed the army had set to their disgusting task of taking the teeth out of the dead and dying together with any valuable object that the poor man could still have on. Repulsed by the sight, Jane made up her mind to call it a night and look for shelter, unaware that her precarious situation had not passed unnoticed either.

No more firing was heard at Madrid. Only the ill had been left behind. Amidst the wounded soldiers, our brave colonel laid badly hurt. He had a serious cut too close to his left eye, and he could not feel his limbs but he was not really concerned about it. He had already been carried into a tent, and although he had not yet been attended by anyone, he was confident the surgeon would come and see to his ailment presently. There was a young aide-de-camp lying next to him whose legs had been completed yanked off by a blast. As Richard registered the horrible vision in a bloody blur, he was seized by a terrifying notion. Having noticed he was incapable of rising to his feet, he wondered if he was still a complete man. In a fit of temper he let out a cry and raised his head to check if he still had his legs. To his own surprise they were there, wrapped in a bloody sheet but he still could not feel them. In vain did he try to reach out to touch them. None of his limbs seemed ready to obey him.

"Come on..." he urged his arm between clenched teeth. "Come on..." But all his efforts went for naught. However, the extra energy he had used in pursue of feeling his legs left him without the last of it that he still had. A surge of pain seared his body with such force that Fitzwilliam imagined that he had cried out. But he had not. He had no strength left even for that. A nauseous feeling and pain took sudden hold of him, and he desperately gasped for air. Was that it? Would he not see his family again? And I am sad to say, dear reader, that in this absurd manner, with his last thoughts bent to his beloved wife, Richard Fitzwilliam collapsed into a deep slumber from which he was never to come round.

The months of secret engagement passed quickly, though not quickly enough for Darcy's impatient soul. Once the mourning period expired and the marriage was openly declared, the month of courtship would be but a gust of wind. Darcy had never been more nervous, yet his happiness was such that all his friends and relatives declared never to have seen him smile so much. It was worth the long months of doubt and suspense to see the beaming grin on his face when he raised his glass and announced his engagement to the lovely widow of his cousin.

And so it was that, when there was but a se'nnight for the bridal day, all preparations had been complete. Trunks had been packed and locked, those of Elizabeth's and little Richard's, who was to spend a month under the care of his proud grand-parents, while his mom and foster papa honeymooned in Brighton. Then the grand house at Pemberley awaited the happy family to make a new start.

But Elizabeth's soul was not at peace. She had felt a bit feverish by the whole affair. Truth be told, it was not the preparations that made her feel feverish, not the anticipation of the great change, the new life which was to commence, but pangs of dim remorse and shame.

It was nonsensical, she knew. Darcy and she had been innocent during the whole courtship. Still, she had at heart a strange and anxious thought. Something which she could not comprehend that called her to Richard's tomb.

Mr Darcy was absent from home, business having called him to Pemberley, and was not yet returned. Elizabeth would have wished him home to tell him the strange feeling that burdened her mind, for the enigma of the call perplexed her. "Richard is not in that graveyard, you goose," she thought to herself. "Why go there?"

But despite the scruples that might have restrained her feet from the cemetery, her soul sought the orchard where her husband's empty tomb lay and thence her feet dragged her one afternoon, driven by a warm wind, which all day had blown strong and full, drifting clouds away, unveiling the blue sky. With an uncertain pace, Elizabeth ran before the wind, descending the walk until she was face to face with the grey giant that was Richard's stone.

Elizabeth, whose shawl and bonnet were off, stood miserably in front of the imposing monument, eyes closed, her body wrapped in the playful warmth of the zephyr that had summoned her there. Tears finally brimmed over, gradually rolling down her cheek. There were several big stone benches in the orchard, discreetly placed in front of the big stones and graves. On one of those Elizabeth sat, full of sadness, head hung down in penitence.

"Forgive me, dear Richard. Dear, dear husband." she muttered over and over between sobs. "You must know I loved you. 'Tis only that I cannot bear... I cannot... alone for ever."

Her head fell to her bosom, and her hands went up to her eyes, and there for a while she gave way to her emotions. "Your cousin ... he insisted on marrying me. You know ... He and I ... He and I had been promised once. But there has been ... nothing ...between us... until now." Elizabeth's head sank down and for the longest time, she commenced to weep in a most agitated manner. "There is nothing to forbid me, I know ... But 'tis only I.... O, Lord! I may love him if you will forgive me!"

She fell into a grave silence, then sobbed a little more and finally, after shaking all over with sincere pain, she confessed with a trembling upper lip, "I love him." She immediately felt a great relief washing down her body, as if she had gotten rid of a heavy load.

With her spirit thus calmed down, she proceeded to tell him all about the solitary hours that she had spent in Spain, and how Darcy had helped her, as if she were convincing him how sincerely Darcy loved her and of his attachment to little Richard. Of this latter not one detail did she forget. He was a handsome boy, to be sure. His beautiful azure eyes were so similar to his. His grandfather had already picked a pony for him ...and a school. If only Richard could see him! Could he hear all that she was telling him wherever he was? she wondered.

Uncertainty notwithstanding, she continued with her tale about his son's petty progresses, his toys, his games, detail after detail, how he had already started to walk. "He is a bold one, your son," she said with a smile as she recalled the infant's determination to walk.

"I promise he will come in good time," she said.

Satisfied with her one-way transaction, she kissed her gloved hand and then placed the kiss on the cold stone, lingering her hand there for a while. "Goodbye, my colonel," she said at last. "God bless you. It is time for me to grow green again."

She was thus pouring her soul when she sensed she was no longer alone. Now, Elizabeth would have liked to kneel down and say her prayers there. But to her dismay, a rather cast down gentleman, dressed in a black cape and a crape hat-band came out of the blue, starling the poor girl with his sudden appearance. Standing between the graves opposite, his back to Elizabeth, the man did not seem aware that he was disturbing her.

"Forgive me, sir." she began to say to the stranger, a little annoyed by the unexpected interruption. "Are you related to the family?"

"I hardly know," he answered in a whisper. "Are you?"

"I am."

"And you are..."

"Mrs Richard Fitzwilliam."

"I see." And as he said those words he turned around, gradually taking the large hat that concealed his features. "In that case I suppose we must be related."

* Teeth traders were unscrupulous men that used to rob tombs or, as described in the chapter, follow regiments to pull the teeth out of the dying and dead after battles in order to sell the precious dental pieces to dentists who would use them to make false teeth for the very rich. President Washington, who had one tooth taken out every year since he was 22, use to have one of these set of teeth, which had probably been made of teeth stolen from graves. Disgusting, huh? (As appeared in Awake magazine, September issue, 2007).

It had not been his intention to startle Elizabeth. He had no idea the woman leaning on the stone was her, for that was the first time he had seen her. Granted, it would have been impossible for him to have predicted such an undesirable encounter, had he had the opportunity to see a likeness of her in advance.

But judging for the reaction his unexpected appearance had made on Elizabeth, it was plain that in her case, this was not the first time she had seen his face. The look in her eyes, the turn of her countenance had been such as to appal him excessively. The change of her features spoke of a frightful surprise, the sight of the unexpected. Had she seen a ghost, she could have not been so shaken, so completely taken aback. For a moment he thought that she would faint, so pallid she became, her knees failing to keep her erect.

"Are you..."he said, meaning to ask her if she was not feeling well, but he trailed off for it was evident that she was unwell.

"I am sorry. I understand this must be very difficult for you."

"Fitzwilliam..." she finally managed to gasp as her knees finally abandoned her.

Fitzwilliam reached out to help her to her feet.

"Let me help you," he said with his characteristic compassion. "You do not look well," he said in a whisper and gently motioned her to sit back on the stone bench. Elizabeth could not be more confused. There was her husband, in the flesh, after she had thought him gone for ever, dressed exquisitely in jet black, like a very rich gentleman would, talking to her as if it was the most natural thing.

"Are you feeling better?"

"I am, I am. O my God," she said with a feeble voice. "It is you. Fitzwilliam!"

He smiled at her sweetly, then sighed and looked down. "So it seems," he said with pained voice.

"Lord. You are alive!" and then frowning with confusion she added, "This is so...this is so..."

"Unexpected?"

"Yes. No! I have always had this feeling inside that you... that you were...O my God, Jane! Where is Jane? Is she safe?"

"She is."

Before the night died Jane Bennet had withstood the unthinkable. She could have been an easy target for the attack of the greedy robbers, but had been mercifully protected by the timely arrival of a sergeant and a small group of soldiers who proceeded to put up a hospital tent, thus dispersing the robbers and teeth traders that still lingered about. So, after resting a little, Jane resumed her search for Richard Fitzwilliam among the bodies that lay in the field. In the end, when the daylight broke, some country carts were brought to carry the dead and dying away. Jane was looking into one of these when she spotted Richard's familiar face amidst a heap of dead bodies.

"Stop, stop!" she cried with a weak voice as she rushed to the man with the pallid face. It was Richard, in a frightful state but mercifully unconscious, not dead.

Jane immediately demanded that the colonel's body be given into her care. The officer in charge of the cart protested a bit, but he finally gave in to Jane's demands and handed the unconscious Fitzwilliam over to her.

You would not like to know the pains Jane had to go through afterwards. First, she fought fiercely for Fitzwilliam's admittance into medical care. There were so many soldiers in dire need of attention, that a dying colonel would only be a waste of time and effort to the eye of the nurses. But Jane would not give up. She cried and begged until she was given a straw bed for her patient. From then on, poor Jane, despite being in a fevered and critical condition herself, took up to watch incessantly by the severely wounded colonel, whose pains were indeed fearful to behold. When at long last the surgeon condescended to see to him, more than a se'nnight had passed. After a brief inspection of the colonel's pitiful condition, he shook his head disapprovingly.

"Colonel Fitzwilliam, ain't he?" asked the surgeon to Jane as he scanned a notebook. Jane nodded in affirmation. "I say, infernal infection in his leg, a deuce of a fever, palpitation of the heart, off he goes! He won't last this night, mark my words." Jane stared back at him with bewildered eyes. "I beg your pardon, sir?" It was then that the surgeon realised he was not talking to a nurse but probably with the colonel's wife and was completely taken aback. "O, damn," said the doctor in alarm. "Are you a relative?" Jane nodded once more, blushing deeply. The physician's countenance, instead, became peculiarly ghastly. He hated talking to the family, especially when he had such distressing news to impart. "I am sorry, ma'am. There is nothing I can do for him. We need the bed. I shall inform his superiors."

"Lord! What do you mean?"

With a painful look on his face the old man faced Jane with the bad news. "He will not make it," he sentenced gravely, "and there several other men out there who will have a chance if they could be given your husband's place." Looking at Jane's eyes, the doctor thought that she probably had been crying for ever. Broken-hearted, he tried to explain his position. "Upon my word, ma'am," he said bluntly, "the colonel could have a chance if I could amputate his leg, but he is too weak. He will not make it. I am sorry. If we were in London perhaps ... but not here. I am sorry." He then recommended that Jane rest. When she refused, he asked her to tend to the young lad lying next to Richard who had more chances of recovery. But Jane would not hear of it. There was only one man in the army for her and she would not abandon him regardless of the opinion of the surgeon. She braved the men who thereupon came to remove the colonel and defied any of them to lay one finger on him. Far from abandoning him, she doubled her attentions to the colonel, and as she did so, she spoke to him in a hushed and tender tone.

Another day passed, and then another and to the surprise of the surgeon, his opinion of Richard's health was refuted by the colonel's heartbeat and absence of fever when he came by to check on him the next week. He congratulated Jane for her efforts but was adamant against risking yet a word in favour of Richard's complete recovery.

"You have arrived just in time, like a miracle ma'am. A positive miracle from Heaven, I assure you," the surgeon declared, still amazed at the colonel's recovery. "Yet I insist that you should go out a bit and see the light. Even guardian angels must have some sleep. Or I won't answer for your health!" He then turned to see his other patients, but when he was done, he returned to see the colonel before he went out, still in awe for his miraculous recovery. Again he recommended that Jane get some rest lest she should fall ill too. Jane thought that she could use some sleep and was happy to accept the straw bed in the nurses' tent that the doctor offered. But when she overheard the surgeon that there seemed to be some cases of consumption and that he would have to declare a quarantine, Jane made up her mind to stay and remove Richard from the ward at all costs.

In taking care of her patient, and in thinking of the escape she would make with him, Jane's second week passed away not so slowly. The young lad that first lay beside Richard was replaced twice by other soldiers who, like him, did not survive in the end. But Colonel Fitzwilliam seemed to endure almost everything thanks to Jane's care.

The next day was Sunday. It was the perfect chance to fly with Richard. In the middle of the night, she dragged Richard's stretcher with God only knew whose strength, until she successfully made it out of the ward. With strenuous effort she pulled Richard's stretcher onto an improvised cart tied to her mare and very slowly guided the beast out of the place. They reached the open fields about six hours later. Feeling that they were safe from the terrible grasps of the quarantine, she collapsed beside Richard. There they lay until they were found by a peasant who just happened to pass by.

Now, Jose was a Spanish servant who did not speak a word in English. The servant was returning to his lady's house in a faraway estate from Madrid where he had been sent to bring news of the young master, Fernando Fernan Ruiz y Albornoz, who was an officer for the Spanish Army. Jose did not bring good news, though, for his young master's name was among those on the list of casualties. Wondering how to convey such terrible news to his beloved mistress, Jose lost complete consciousness of the world around him and did not notice when the cart stopped. There could be only one reason for the oxen to refuse to go on. There must be something blocking their way. Not a little puzzled, Jose stood up in the driver's seat for a quick inspection of the dusty road but he only saw what seemed to be the corpse of a soldier. A few yards from him, he saw a mare, grazing lazily in the fields. Now, Jose was a good Christian, but these days corpses were abundant in the fields, but horses were scarce. So he climbed off his cart with the sole intention of tying the mare to the rear. He was about to finish his job when he was confronted with the strange sight of the young lady lying by the side of the bulge that Richard was.

"Virgen Santa!" he gasped and quickly abandoned the reins of the mare to run to Jane's side.

In vain did Jose try to wake Jane up. Her poor soul was so exhausted after the tremendous effort that she had fallen into a deep sleep and there was no way that she could regain consciousness soon. With excessive care Jose carried Jane onto his cart but when he kneeled beside her he also noticed Richard's ragged breathing. Seeing that it was not a dead soldier, but a badly battered one, he carried Richard's body onto the cart too, and the three of them started a silent journey back to Jose's mistress's lodge.

The man that had once been known as Colonel Fitzwilliam soon discovered that his wife was, indeed, a sensible young lady. She did not fuss as much as he had expected over his bizarre resurrection but, once the first shock was over, she seemed more interested in her sister, rather than herself. As it was, Elizabeth was firing him a hundred questions.

"You must rest assure you shall see your sister soon. She is resting now, at the hotel with my mother..."

"Hotel? Are you not at home?"

He seemed to stop for a while, his gaze scanning her face pleadingly. What was he asking of her? Patience, perhaps. Elizabeth immediately sensed something was even stranger than Fitzwilliam's sudden appearance in the cemetery and she could not wait to find out what it was. As if he were capable of reading her thoughts, her interlocutor once more resumed the thread of the conversation.

"Mrs Fitzwilliam. You must know... I am not who you think I am. At least, I may be your husband but the truth is...I am a bit confused." Elizabeth did not answer, but wisely waited for him to make his meaning clearer. To show him she was expecting him to elaborate on that last thought, she arched her eyebrow inquisitively. Fitzwilliam, then, sat beside her. With excessive gentleness he captured her hands between his and began his tale.

"I am no longer known as Colonel Richard Fitzwilliam. It is true I am him, but I am now known by the name my benefactor gave me. My name is Fernando Ruiz Albornoz. I am told I was a colonel with the British Army that fought in Madrid. Apparently I got severely hurt. Your sister Jane found me and somehow she managed to rescue me. But as it happens, I have no recollection of how or when this came to be or what my life was like prior to last year..."

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