Page 74 of Introducing Mrs. Collins
He was dismayed that this did nothing to alleviate her low mood. He tried again. ‘It is unlikely I will be on the front lines, at any rate. I could request a strategic role when I return.’
She looked up at him. ‘Richard.’
He met her eyes, and he knew then, more or less, what was to come. Both of them had always known, if they allowed their minds to travel to it, that what had happened between them could only ever be temporary. It had to be. Therefore, both had been awaiting the hammer-blow. It had just been a matter of who would do it and how soon.
Fitzwilliam had lived a strange existence this year. He had been in uniform since the age of sixteen and had quickly become accustomed to, even reliant on, routine. Drills, exercises and marching, first in barracks and then, at the turn of the war, on garrison in Gibraltar. Always drills, exercises and marching. He had then fought in Spain, but even that was no great break from what he knew: he had his orders, his regiment, his red coat, his destinationand his purpose. When the terrain was new and tough, he returned to shining his boots, sewing his patches, following orders, issuing orders and marching. Always marching.
Since Albuera, all had been chaos. It started with the chaos of the battle itself: total disorder, man after man cut down, achieving nothing. He lost so many. He lost Parker. The return journey had been long and sombre; all regiments had suffered such great losses that those who survived travelled in a state of shock. His regiment had been decimated, and on return, they had been tasked with rebuilding their ranks for a few months. Initially, they were on leave but then barracked, so it was back to drills, exercises and marching.
Fitzwilliam had received a promotion during this period at home – reward for his leadership during Albuera. It was laughable to him that any praise should be meted out following such a catastrophe. He had therefore been in a sort of limbo when he first went to stay at Rosings.
It was during this time of stasis that he visited Hunsford and first met Charlotte. Although Elizabeth had initially drawn his eye, with Charlotte he had immediately felt something new, something comforting. She put him at ease, which, given his circumstances, was radical to him. But he did not consider at that point that there might be any deeper feelings; she was married, and he was a soldier. He directed some half-hearted flirtation towards her single friend, albeit with no serious intent. But he could not stop his mind wandering towards Charlotte, no matter how pointless it seemed. He masked his feelings well enough, at first.
He could not forget that day at the church last spring. She had so easily laughed off the debacle that caused them to collide, but he did not forget it. He had almost declared himself that day. She had caught him before he could. Had she not, he would have told her how he felt drawn to her, how he felt sure of her, and how he had never been so loath to leave someone when his orders came.
Salamanca had been a very different affair from Albuera – brutal, of course, but the campaign, taken as a whole, had been more familiar to him. He had started to feel as though he were returning to a life he recognised, the life of a soldier: following orders, issuing orders and marching. Always marching.
Then he was shot, and he could march no longer.
When Charlotte first visited him at Rosings after his injury, he was wretched. Ashamed of his broken state and reluctant to let her see him so weak, he had been rude and agitated. When she told him she was pregnant, he saw that she had found the peace she had once spoken of. She looked serene, contented. He knew to leave her well alone, to leave her to her happiness so that she could build her family.
And so he had intended – until Pemberley. Until he found her, lost in a maze, and she found him, and he wanted the hedges to grow and entwine and close over the pathways so that they might never find their way out.
And when the rain came down on them, he found that he could not only march but run.
As he strode back towards Rosings now, his thick coat rippling in the winter wind, he blinked back tears and felt every crack, every strain, every stab of pain in his shattered leg. But he did not slacken his speed. He moved like a tempest, and the ache only spurred him on. As he walked purposefully into the house, his aunt called, ‘Richard, is that you?’
He did not reply.
‘Come into breakfast; you are late.’
He still did not reply. Instead, he turned away from the breakfast room, made his way to the drawing room and the inviting drinks table. He grabbed the decanter of brandy and set about pouring a very large glass. His chest was heaving as he lifted it, the strong vapours hitting the back of his throat like a violent old friend – but did not yet drink.
His eyes fell on the grand piano in the corner of the room. He imagined Charlotte seated there, effortlessly playing a melody that dazzled the assembled company. He pictured her hands, her delicate fingers, which had held his face so gently just now in the woods as she had said goodbye.
He looked down at his own trembling hands, wrapped tightly around the glass, hands that had held her – sturdily but with great care. His hands, though rough and calloused, could both wield a sabre or thread a needle – hands practised in repair, in steadying what was broken.
He put the glass down.
He walked away from the drinks table and up to his rooms, where he set his troubled mind to something more practical – which is what, he imagined, Charlotte would do.
28th February 1813
Sir,
I have received and laid before the commander-in-chief your letter of the 18th Instant and am directed to grant your request to return to duty. You are to proceed by the earliest opportunity to Lisbon and to report your embarkation to this department, in conformity to the directions hereby enclosed. You will seek Lord Wellington’s pleasure as to the nature of your command.
Yours,
Lieutenant Colonel Henry Torrens
VOLUME
THREE
6th March 1813
Dear Mr Collins,
