Page 12 of Grief and Grievances
With that, they both stood in silence, watching as the effects of the laudanum gradually took hold, their minds occupied by the uncertain future that lay ahead.
Lady Catherine’s breathing slowed, her eyelids fluttering as the laudanum took effect. She sank into a semi-somnolent state, her body relaxing against the plush cushions of the sofa. Her quiet repose stood in stark contrast to the turmoil that raged within Darcy and Fitzwilliam.
“She appears more tranquil now,” Fitzwilliam observed softly, his gaze fixed upon their aunt’s slumbering form. “What news of Anne?”
Darcy hesitated, his throat tightening at the memory of the doctor’s solemn countenance. “It is not well,” he admitted, his voice barely audible. “The doctor did not speak the words, but his expression bore the gravity of our worst fears.”
The oppressive stillness of the room seemed to mirror the heaviness in Darcy’s chest as he observed his cousin studying the patterned wallpaper with a distant gaze. The silence was broken when Fitzwilliam heaved a sigh, then turned to face Darcy.
“Truth be told, I had already anticipated this dire situation,” he admitted, his voice grave and tinged with sorrow. “Anne’s head injury was severe—I’ve seen similar wounds in fallen cavalrymen.”
Darcy furrowed his brow, feeling a chill run down his spine at Fitzwilliam’s comparison. He gripped the back of a nearby chair, steadying himself against the sudden wave of dread that washed over him. He took a deep breath, his voice barely more than a whisper as he posed his question. “How long do you believe... we might have?”
Fitzwilliam hesitated, his brow furrowing in thought. “It is difficult to say,” he admitted quietly, his gaze lingering on the slumbering form of their aunt. “In my experience, these injuries often follow an unpredictable course. Anne may linger for days, perhaps even weeks. But it could also be mere hours.”
“Hours?” Darcy repeated, feeling the weight of those words settling heavily upon his chest. He closed his eyes, attempting to find solace in the darkness, but the images of Anne’s pale, lifeless face haunted him.
“Indeed,” Fitzwilliam replied, sensing his cousin’s distress. He placed a comforting hand on Darcy’s shoulder, offering what little support he could. “However, we must remain strong and focused on the tasks at hand.”
Darcy nodded solemnly, swallowing the lump that had formed in his throat. With great effort, he pushed aside his grief and turned his mind to more practical matters. “Jeremiah de Bourgh should be informed,” he said quietly, referring to Sir Lewis’s nephew and the potential heir to Rosings. “He must be made aware of the situation and his possible inheritance.”
“Agreed,” Fitzwilliam concurred, his own expression set with determination. He, too, understood the importance of attending to their familial obligations, despite the anguish that threatened to engulf them both. “I shall pen a letter to him posthaste.”
As the sombre atmosphere settled heavily in the room, Darcy looked at his cousin’s furrowed brow. The weight of their duty was beginning to take its toll on Fitzwilliam’s features, but he remained resolute nonetheless.
“Once we inform Jeremiah, the ownership of Rosings will undoubtedly cause distress to our aunt,” Darcy said, casting a concerned glance towards Lady Catherine. Her steady breathing, aided by the laudanum, belied the turmoil that would surely ensue upon waking.
“Indeed, she has always viewed Rosings as her own dominion,” Fitzwilliam agreed, his voice laced with both sympathy and resignation. “But it is Anne who holds the true claim, and if she... should not recover...” His voice trailed off, unable to fully articulate their shared fear.
“Then Jeremiah shall inherit. It is only proper.” Darcy clenched his jaw, forcing himself to acknowledge the harsh reality they faced. He could not allow emotion to cloud his judgement. “We must ensure that Lady Catherine is provided for, however.”
“Agreed, and it will fall upon my father, the Earl, to manage her care.” Fitzwilliam pursed his lips, contemplating the implications of such an arrangement. “I shall write to him as well, apprising him of the situation and seeking his guidance.”
“Your father has always been a wise and steady hand,” Darcy replied, grateful for his uncle’s presence, albeit from afar. “His counsel will be invaluable during these trying times.”
Fitzwilliam nodded solemnly. “I will convey your sentiments to him, Cousin. We must all lean on one another now, more than ever.”
The fleeting sunlight filtering through the drawing-room windows cast a sombre glow upon Darcy’s face as he contemplated his next course of action. The gravity of the situation weighed heavily upon him, and he knew that he must inform his sister Georgiana of Anne’s dire condition. She would want to bid farewell to her cousin, and it fell upon Darcy to deliver such tragic news.
“Georgiana,” he murmured, his heart heavy with sorrow. “She will be devastated by this turn of events.”
“Indeed.” Fitzwilliam glanced up from his letter to look at his cousin, concern etched on his features. “Anne and Georgiana have always enjoyed each other’s company.”
“Then it is all the more important she knows. She deserves the chance to bid Anne farewell,” Darcy replied firmly, summoning his resolve. He collected a sheet of parchment, ink, and a quill, preparing to pen the difficult missive.
As Darcy carefully formed the words that would forever change his sister’s world, he was struck by the cruel irony of life; how one moment, he was preparing to take the plunge and propose to Elizabeth, only to be plunged into despair at the prospect of losing dear Anne.
Fitzwilliam, too, appeared lost in thought as he composed his letter to his father. The scratching of their quills against the parchment filled the room, punctuated only by the occasional sigh or muttered phrase. It was a poignant testament to the gravity of their task, and both men were keenly aware of the implications that lay behind each penned word.
“Are you ready, Cousin?” Fitzwilliam asked, finally sealing his letter with a sense of finality.
Darcy nodded, hesitating for a second before folding his own missive. “Yes. Let us see these dispatched promptly.”
Darcy rang the bell for a servant to attend them. While they waited, he allowed himself a moment’s reflection on the events that had led them to this juncture. It seemed as if fate had conspired against their happiness, determined to test their strength and resolve in the face of such adversity.
The door to the drawing room opened, and a vision of calm efficiency entered in the form of Charlotte Collins. Her gaze swept over Darcy and Fitzwilliam with quiet understanding as she approached them, carrying with her an air of purpose that seemed to defy the chaos that had descended upon Rosings.
“Ah, Mrs Collins. Allow me to clarify the situation for my cousin,” Darcy said, turning to address Fitzwilliam. “I have entrusted Mrs. Collins with coordinating our efforts during this crisis, given her level-headedness and ability to manage complex situations. With our aunt indisposed, and her housekeeper incapacitated by grief, Mrs. Collins was the best choice to take charge.”
