I’m getting closer to having Colonel Fitzwilliam finished, so I thought you guys might like an excerpt or two. Colonel Fitzwilliam has met and fallen in love with Miss Emily Chelwood, and she with him; unfortunately he is sent to France right after they meet, and he does not propose in order to leave her free if anything untoward occurs while he is away; that was dumb, of course, but they both thought they were doing the right thing, protecting each other from the strength of their feelings. But he can’t keep himself from writing to her while he’s away, and uses Elizabeth as a go-between. This is the third of his letters, and Elizabeth has gotten fairly accustomed to her role as note-passer and confidante.

We start with the Colonel’s letter from France, then we pick up Emily and Elizabeth in Emily’s drawing-room, where she shares her feelings with Elizabeth (we pass over a letter of explanation to Darcy and Elizabeth from Colonel Fitzwilliam, and their discussion thereof; this happens with each letter, giving our D&E addicts a little fix). In it he mentions Esparza, his companion on his mission in France; Esparza is named after our dear friend Meredith, of Austenesque Reviews, lest there be any doubt.

Rochefort, France
Sunday, May 9th, —

My dearest Emily,

A month gone, and this, only my third time of writing you; yet it seems that whole ages of the world have passed by since I last saw you. We have been through Bordeaux, where the wine merchants were so thick and English so often heard on the streets, that I almost thought myself in Piccadilly; now we are at Rochefort, a port city on the Bay of Biscay. As it is Sunday, the only thing moving in the area is the River Charente, winding sluggishly to the sea, and the time drags unendurably. It has been a day of torture to me, as, with nothing going forward, I have no deeds to occupy my mind, and no hope of moving my task forward that I may return to you. And so it is that I find my resolve once again overset, and I sit down to commune with you, the keeper of my heart.

Since writing to you last, I have sought to do as I said I would, devoting each day wholly to the completion of my affairs, thereby hastening my return. All in all, I have not been entirely unsuccessful, but the days begin to run together; I awake, and I yearn for you; I work and strive through the day, and I yearn for you; I retire, and I yearn for you. Mightily do I wish I had not been required to leave your side betimes, that we might have been sure of each other before my leaving. Such frankness cannot surprise you, surely, my dearest, and I trust will not distress you.

This afternoon I find myself enervated and indolent; were I at home, I should like nothing better than to sit with you on the landing, holding hands in silence and contentment, as we watched the world pass by outside the window. This vision has become one version of Paradise to me: peace, home, quietude, and you. There are others, but they all share the common thread of your presence: anywhere you are, is Heaven to me.

Esparza has taken himself off, I know not where; he is an odd fellow—amusing, affable, and sometimes unaccountable. But I like him, and he has been an excellent companion during my travels; I hope I shall be able to introduce you on our return.

Forgive me: I am rambling, I know; but there is nothing for me to do, save writing these paragraphs to you, that I might feel closer to you. I see you instantly here before me, your smile warming my heart, and your sweet voice calming my soul. I must hold firmly to this image, for without it I fear the beasts within me would be loosed, and I would rage all the way to Paris to be done with my commission. But I conjure you up and all is quiet, and moves sweetly within me; your unalloyed purity, virtue, and composure infuses my mind, reforms my unease and frustration, and makes me still again. And so here I sit, whiling away my solitary afternoon, in company with the vision of light and love that is my beloved.

Goodness, how maudlin I am become! You must think me in liquor, but I am not, on my honour; it is only missing you that disorders my thinking and makes me sound the fool. I would gladly play the fool for you, my dearest, if it would amuse you, or ease your day; I only pray that you are well, and do not ache for me as I do for you. Your pain is ever more painful to me than my own, and to be its author is ever my dread.

Well, this has taken a turn I do not wish to follow, and I shall therefore leave off; I shall take myself out into the sun for a stroll, and imagine you on my arm, as when we visited Whitehall; or perhaps I shall sit by the square and watch the couples as they promenade, or ride the lanes in their carriages, and imagine we are amongst them.

Be well and strong for my sake, as I shall be for yours. I am, as always,

Your adoring,

Edmund


And now for Emily and Elizabeth:


On entering the drawing-room Miss Chelwood saw that Elizabeth had another letter for her, and lost no time in reading it. As she read, her soft exclamations of tenderness, seemingly almost designed to elicit enquiry, soon produced their effect. “Emily, for Heaven’s sake! Whatever are you mooning over?”

“Oh, Elizabeth,” said she, “my poor boy! He sounds so lorn and alone!”

“‘Lorn and alone’!” Elizabeth demanded, surprised. “Gracious! Is that Shakespeare?”

“I think not,” Emily replied, colouring. “Donne, perhaps—or neither; I can no longer be sure. I have been reading both, I confess, but it may in fact have come from my own disordered sensibilities.”

“Perhaps you had better limit your reading to prose, dear,” Elizabeth said practically, “as being less likely to discompose the emotions; at this rate we shall soon have to dress you in one of those high, peaked head-dresses, with a scarf flying from its top, and a pendant belt, that you might suffer and swoon the better for your roving knight.”

Emily blushed again, saying, “I only meant he did not sound as if he were in spirits.”

“Yes, in his letter to us Darcy thought he detected that he was not quite himself. Is aught amiss, or does he merely pine?” This last she said with mischievous relish.

“Elizabeth! How can you be so heartless?”

“As he is one of my favourite connexions, and as we have always enjoyed a bit of raillery, if I do enjoy it rather more than I ought, I am sure he will forgive me and understand. But in all honesty I am only too delighted to see him succumb at last to his heart; and I would have you know how truly delightful it is to me that the two of you are together. I am sure I know no other couple so well-suited to one another.”

“There is you, and Mr. Darcy,” Emily said.

Elizabeth did not speak immediately, lost in a reflection on her own early days as a lover and wife. “Perhaps so,” she mused. “And I dare say we were just as bad, at first. But then, maybe that is it: misery loves company.”

“Misery!”

“No, no, my dear; it is only just an expression. I mean, having been so one’s self, it is reassuring to see another, for whom one holds a strong regard, act the same. One does not feel quite such a mooncalf, then.”

“Am I a mooncalf?” asked Emily in a small voice.

“Completely,” Elizabeth assured her affectionately. “Palpably, undeniably, indescribably so; it is terribly sweet, you know. And he is every bit as bad as you. Is not that delicious?”

Emily looked a little alarmed and ashamed, but then she brightened, saying with conspiratorial glee, “Yes—it is.” The two young women laughed, and Elizabeth proceeded to question her minutely on the Colonel’s letter, to Emily’s complete satisfaction.