Sons and Daughters Read online

  Sons

  &

  Daughters

  Darcy and Fitzwilliam

  Book Two

  Karen V. Wayslowski

  Copyright 2012 by Karen V. Wayslowski

  KINDLE EDITION

  All rights reserved. This copy is intended for the original purchaser of this book. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without prior written permission from the author except by reviewers who may quote brief excerpts in connection with a review. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author's rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

  This book is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to institutions or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Cover design by

  www.hotdamndesigns.com

  3

  For our fathers,

  Sven J. Hamrin

  And Nicholas Wasylowski

  And the women who loved them,

  Rose and Anna

  Psalm 127:3-5

  Children are a gift from the Lord; they are a reward from him.

  Children born to a young man are like arrows in a warrior's hands.

  How joyful is the man whose quiver is full of them!

  Prologue

  1823

  “The Fathers”

  “I don’t understand how you had eight children and I only three. It makes no sense.” Darcy strummed his fingers on the arm of his chair, his narrowed gaze fixed on his cousin. He absolutely hated to lose any competition to this man. “You’re no more virile than I. Quite the contrary, in fact.”

  Fitzwilliam gave a snort of derision. “Bah! I am virility personified. It oozes from my every pore.”

  “Oh, is that what that is?”

  “My seed practically leapt into her womb, for heaven’s sake.”

  “Rather like a virus.”

  ‘Darcy and Fitzwilliam’

  Karen V. Wayslowski, 2011

  Chapter One

  It was early morning, September, 1823, and the breeze from the open doorway was as crisp and clean as freshly laundered linens. The day promised to be a beautiful one; just the sort of day Fitzwilliam Darcy loved – autumn at its finest. He inhaled deeply. Bracing, was his considered opinion, that’s what it is - energizing.

  Then he caught a whiff of the Thames River and wrinkled his nose, searched for his handkerchief and sneezed.

  Ah well. No matter, it was still his beloved city. It was London.

  He turned back to his butler. “Winters, I should be home early for dinner this evening. Just something simple mind you, soup or eggs, nothing too spicy; no need for Mrs. Hobbs to prepare anything elaborate.”

  “You always do have an uncertain stomach when Mrs. Darcy and the children are not accompanying you, sir. Cook understands and generally makes the necessary adjustments to her menus.”

  “Absolutely right, the woman’s a gem. Well, Mrs. D and the chicks should be here by the end of the week. I’ll warrant Cook is eager to begin baking her sweets for the little ones. She spoils them dreadfully.”

  “She tries her best to, sir, as we all do.”

  Smiling, Darcy shrugged into his great coat. “I’ve several arduous appointments before me today, Winters. Ghastly, horrid hours that very well may have me bald by morning.”

  His butler tilted his head. “I had no idea you were to see Lady Catherine today, sir. Shall I summon your coach?”

  Darcy tried not to laugh outright. The man had correctly guessed that one of his appointments that day would, indeed, include his formidable aunt.

  “No, thank you Winters, it’s too lovely a day. It should be splendid a walk.”

  “As you wish, sir.”

  Bowing respectfully to his employer the butler stepped back inside then closed the imposing doors to Pemberley House, providing Darcy with a rare moment alone, to stand and simply admire his surroundings. His gaze swept first across its pediment gables, its heavy cornices, its towering white columns. He loved everything about this house, every brick – even that creaking and immense iron lamp that hung above the front door. Suspended from two stories overhead, it was always lit, day or night, whenever any Darcy family member was in residence; a tradition as old as the house itself. It was lit now and he smiled.

  Tradition.

  This home contained his family’s history, from his great, great grandfather’s original frame structure, innovative for its day, to his grandfather’s brick and stone rebuild, expanding the original structure to nearly three times its size, then on to his father’s addition of a second story with larger bedrooms, individual sitting rooms, and a second library. Now, an unheard of third story had been added, housing the new nursery and schoolroom of the modern age, in addition to the upgraded servants’ quarters. His latest improvement to the back of the house was a completely redesigned and most modern kitchen. He loved to keep everything up to date and state of the art. Each family had added and improved upon the previous; each family’s unique character was impressed within the stones. Darcy loved both his homes, the one here in London and the ancestral estate in Derbyshire; both represented cornerstones in his world – stability, elegance, dignity…Pride.

  Settling his fashionable beaver hat securely upon his perfectly coifed head Darcy looked to the street as he began to pull on his gloves. Two women passing by whispered their admiration at the sight of him, his Marcella waistcoat worn with the poise of royalty, his snow white cravat, his buff colored pantaloons…

  His huge garrick.

  He was, simply put, the perfect picture of masculine sophistication. Framed there between the lofty columns of his front portico Fitzwilliam Darcy was truly a sight to behold. At six and thirty years he was at the very pinnacle of his good looks, an esteemed leader in his community; and, he was staggeringly wealthy. Unfortunately, for the two brazen women openly flirting with him he was also very happily married and completely uninterested.

  To the outside world an aura of exception had surrounded Darcy, his form and life blessed by the gods. The truth was he thought little of his looks. He considered any physical beauty attributed to him the gift of a lovely mother and an exceedingly tall, debonair father. If the then resulting arrangement of features had turned out sound, well, that was a mere chance of birth, not a hard won accomplishment. To his way of thinking his younger sister, Georgiana, was much the better looking, and she played the pianoforte.

  Be that as it may, all others agreed this grand personal good fortune of his – his physical appearance, his great wealth – would carry him blissfully into the future. After all, humanity naturally bowed to perfection. He had every right to feel proud, arrogant, and even superior.

  Except for one small thing…

  Darcy knew it was all fleeting. He had seen it happened to a dozen acquaintances, had heard of a hundred more. Good looks fade – everyone’s – eventually. One’s money could easily be lost to disaster or illness; misfortune could strike at you from nowhere, one’s elevated position in society could be reversed in a moment.

  Oh, he supposed at one time in his life he had been proud to a fault. He had existed only within his own small set of acquaintances, had numbed himself to outsiders.

  Then he met Elizabeth Bennet.

  Initially they had fought their attraction to each other but now he could not remember life before her or imagine life without her. Capturing and loving Elizabeth had been the first true miracle of his life.

  And then, through the astounding physical joining of man and woman, he and Elizabeth had created their precious, dear children, his heart and soul, his gift to all future generations. This was what he considered to be the second true miracle.


  He had become a father.

  Chapter Two

  Deciding that such a find day warranted taking the long way round to his Aunt Catherine’s house (truthfully any day warranted that) Darcy headed south on St. James Street toward the square. The roads were not unduly crowded at ten in the morning, but there was some activity. Nursemaids strolled with their carriages, delivery carts rumbled by, and hansom cabs waited at curbs. Occasionally a particularly fine coach would cross his view, peaking his interest.

  When he reached Mall Street he turned to his right, observed the usual morning bustle about Buckingham Palace in the distance, noted the vehicles entering and leaving, some familiar, some foreign. No appointments there today, thank goodness. Across St. James Park, along the River Thames, stood Westminster and Parliament. That would be his final destination this afternoon, meetings lasting a greater part of the day as he and his fellow Derbyshire landowners discussed the current Whig reform debate.

  Possessing one of the borough’s largest land holds his family’s future welfare needed safeguarding. Of immediate concern to him were the so called Rotten Borough and Pocket Borough voting irregularities in the House of Commons.

  Darcy and the others were unhappy with their borough’s member of Commons, one William Cavendish, a cousin of the very powerful 5 Duke of Devonshire. It was a delicate situation in Derbyshire, a form of family squabble occurring in the midst of a national debate. Momentum was building in the House of Commons for reformation but the House of Lords was unsympathetic, and the general belief was that the Duke of Devonshire had long ago lost interest. He loved his dogs and his hunting above all else and would just as soon leave matters as they had been for generations.

  Darcy’s walking stick banged the cobbles a little harder on that thought, sending a surprisingly strong vibration up his arm. Darcy was a patient man, easily as proud as the Cavendish family and nearly as aristocratic, unaccustomed to having reasonable requests ignored. His tolerance was growing thin. Again, as if to emphasize its agreement with his anger, his walking stick took it upon itself to bash against a coach stand.

  Half way around the park Darcy checked his pocket watch, assuring himself he was still early for his first meeting of the day, that with his aunt, Lady Catherine de Bourgh. It was always one of three things when he was summoned into her presence like this. Either she was: one, feeling poorly and submitting to imminent death, two, there was a problem with the accounts and she required someone to blame, or three, she had a grievance with her other nephew, Darcy’s cousin, Richard Fitzwilliam, a man who had recently, and most reluctantly, become heir to the family title after the death of his older brother.

  If it was the third he would soon find himself involved squarely in the middle of a real family squabble. He loved both his aunt and his cousin very much – just not together. Together the two often fought like cats in a sack; and he, Darcy, was usually caught in the middle. His cane suddenly crashed into something metallic and created a terrible racket. Apparently he had just whacked the bloody hell out of an iron fence.

  Seeing as how his mood was far from improving, and fearing further damage to his grandfather’s cane, he slipped the stick beneath his arm and continued on with his stroll. Lost in thought he contemplated his second meeting of the morning with that very cousin, Richard Fitzwilliam. And good heavens wasn’t that poor man’s life suddenly a mess?

  Richard’s father, considering his son a directionless young man, had years before purchased for him a commission in the army (one of the only respectable career paths open to the nobilities’ second sons). Twelve years later, the wars with Napoleon finally over, Richard returned from the Battle of Waterloo a National Hero. His father was content, but Richard was not, feeling as if he was back where he started – without direction, without purpose and without money.

  Everything changed, however, when he fell in love. It was his love of, and marriage to, an American widow that began the rift within that family. The father and son ceased speaking and the subsequent estrangement and loss of funds forced Richard to the unthinkable – employment to support his wife and child. No true aristocrat would ever consider working for a living. Richard had not only considered it, he was actually employed.

  It was soon after that Richard’s older brother, Regis, was killed in an accident. Richard was now his father’s heir, the future Earl of Somerton. He was furious with his brother for dying like that and leaving the expectations of the entire Fitzwilliam family upon his shoulders. Richard’s father was furious because his heir was dirtying his hands with manual labor, married to a common colonial.

  Richard’s Aunt Catherine was furious – well, just because she was Aunt Catherine. It was what she did for a living.

  Darcy’s stomach roiled. He was formulating lists already and his day hadn’t even begun. In fact, such a wretched day lay before him that he briefly entertained the thought of turning round, walking briskly back to his home and crawling into bed.

  Home. Soon Lizzy would arrive with the children. Darcy sighed and shook his head. There would be toys everywhere, much too much noise to properly concentrate, ‘don’t tease your sister’, women’s trinkets and gee gaws mixed somehow with his cuff links and stick pins, ‘if your friend jumped from the roof, would you do that also’, experimental foods forced upon him, tears, laughter, recrimination, ‘I said ‘no’ child - that is the reason and the only reason you need’, visits from family, bickering, ‘Elizabeth, I don’t need a physician’s opinion - it’s an earache’; disagreements…

  It all sounded absolutely lovely, like… home. His shoulders relaxed and Darcy smiled once again.

  The final ten blocks passed by much too quickly and soon Darcy found himself standing before Rosings Place, the town house of his aunt. He knocked loudly. Jamison, his aunt’s long suffering butler, had slowed from old age and was notoriously hard of hearing, especially when Aunt Catherine was addressing him. If the man was avoiding one of Aunt Catherine’s bad moods any response could be a while coming. The door was opened to him after several long moments.

  “Mr. Darcy.” The elderly retainer betrayed none of his surprise, merely inclined his head then backed into the foyer to allow the esteemed visitor immediate access. “Forgive one’s delay. One was not expecting visitors this morning.”

  “Jamison.” The two had a very long and very fond history together – in fact there had never been a time when Darcy had not known of Jamison. As a child Darcy had secretly believed the man to be the very thing about which old London town had been constructed.

  Darcy turned his back to one of the under butlers who relieved him of his coat then he handed Jamison his hat, gloves and cane. Jamison in turn passed those articles to another.

  “How is one feeling today, Jamison?”

  “Quite well, sir. Thank you. Apart from one’s knees. And you, sir?” There was a faint light of humor in the old man’s eyes.

  “Knees still good, eyes dimming, ears failing. Soon sense of taste will be my only joy in life. Is my aunt in her sitting room?”

  “Yes, Mr. Darcy. If one can speak freely…” At Darcy’s nod, the man continued in a confidential tone. “She is again taking her ‘daily medicinal’ beverage, as are both Miss Anne and Mrs. Jenkinson.”

  “Damnation.”

  “Precisely, sir.’

  That shocking information conveyed, Jamison continued on in his usual formal way. “Will you be going over the accounts today, sir? We were expecting you on your regular day of Wednesday; however, her man of business, Mr. Holt, has only just left. One is certain one could have your desk prepared for you.”

  “No. I was summoned here today for some other horror – excuse me – purpose; what, I haven’t a clue. You wouldn’t happen to know, would you? No, I thought not. A good general never shows her hand, and my aunt is nothing short of a military genius at times. I will need to leave by one at the latest, however, so if you could pop in, remind me when that time comes around?”

  “Of
course, Mr. Darcy.”

  Stalling a bit Darcy shot his cuffs, smoothed down the front of his shirt and fussed with his cravat, then passed his hand through his hair. “Good. Well, that’s it then, I had better see what she wants.”

  “That would be very wise, sir.”

  They both stood by the family parlor door, heads bowed in uneasy silence.

  “Are you watering down her sherry as we discussed?”

  “Medicinal beverage, sir.”

  “Are you watering down her medicinal beverage as we discussed?”

  “Absolutely, sir. However, one does believe this maneuver merely provides her with the excuse to now have an additional, late afternoon, medicinal beverage, sir.”

  “My word – she’s very devious isn’t she?”

  “That has always been one’s opinion, sir.”

  “Mr. Jamison?”

  “Yes, Mr. Darcy?”

  “How have we both remained loyal to my aunt for so very long?”

  The butler thought seriously about his answer before he spoke.

  “One supposes it is that she truly does need us, Mr. Darcy.”

  Darcy smiled and nodded. “You are a giant amid midges, Mr. Jamison.”

  The butler softly rapped at the door and began to turn the knob at Lady Catherine’s command. He inclined his head slightly to acknowledge the compliment. “That has always been one’s belief, sir.”

  Chapter Three

  “The children, they are well, Darcy?”

  “Yes, Aunt Catherine. The children are very well, thank you.” Just as well as they were five minutes ago when you last asked. He rolled his eyes as his aunt tossed back a second glass of ‘medicinal liquid’. Darcy had for years consulted with the many doctors who attended her and after very careful consideration they had all come to the unanimous conclusion that excessive use of spirits in the treatment of her constant heart complaints was unwise.