Page 133 of Obligation and Redemption
Pride perceiving humility honourable,
often borrows her cloak.
Thomas Fuller
The green of the trees contrasted beautifully with the cerulean sky overhead, as Darcy heard and admired the multi-coloured birds working diligently to maintain their nests.
The songbirds serenaded one another with the carols passed down through the ages.
A light, pleasing breeze made the warmth of the day dissipate as if wading into a cool creek on a hot summer day.
He noted that he was walking along his favourite path through the gardens of Pemberley, the one with the show of roses in full bloom, the one that his mother had commissioned when she first arrived at Pemberley, the one to match the garden of her youth.
The colours of the blooming flowers made a sea of pinks, yellows and reds as far as he could see.
He closed his eyes to take in the scents around him, and as he reopened them, he realised that he was no longer in the garden, but on a path leading from the manor house and into the woody hills.
Darcy began walking again, as if being lured away, and passed by the tree he used to climb as a boy with his dearest friend, the one who betrayed him.
He then noticed that his hunting hound had joined him, quietly keeping pace.
The wind blowing the canopy of the forest made a deafening sound that now drowned out the avian troubadour.
He continued on up the hill towards the opening that would reveal Pemberley manor in all its glory.
How he loved the view that summarised all that was his!
He began running, so he could hug himself and triumph in his successes as landowner, lord and master over all that his eyes could see, and then even beyond.
He prided himself on his generosity towards his servants and tenant farmers; they worshipped him in gratitude.
He laughed as he considered that he had everything a man could want.
He was his own man whose only responsibilities were those he wanted. He answered to no one.
When he arrived at the summit, he turned to look out through the clearing of trees.
There she was, Pemberley, the sun reflecting off of her stone facade in shades of pinks and purples.
As he looked more closely he could see the servants coming outside and bowing towards him.
He was well pleased as he noticed that they stayed on bended knee, not daring to look him in the eye.
He began to hear a whispering noise all around him and realised that his tenants had made their way behind him, holding out coins and wheat to lay at his feet.
He gloried in the adoration that was due him, for his beneficence towards them.
Darcy noticed that the young maidens of the group stared at him and admired his form.
Even in his youth, he had been handsome, having young women throwing themselves at his feet, begging him to choose them.
But he wore his comeliness with dignity, offended when he was noticed, yet he relished the homage.
However, soon he realised that something was missing, rather someone.
Amidst all of his people dependent upon him, he was alone.
He felt the loss acutely and shook his fist at the sky as he wondered why he was denied a woman perfectly suited to him.
He did not know who the woman could be, who would meet his need, but knew there had to be one.
As he was looking up, he noticed something large and white soaring overhead.
At first, he thought it to be an angel, but then realised that it was not an angel, but a large white bird, perhaps a gyrfalcon, flying as if searching for prey.
The bird was headed towards the manor house, gaining speed.
The sky was now getting dark and the house was no longer lit with the colours of the sun, but was grey as twilight.
From behind the house he saw storm clouds gather with streaks of light jumping from one to the other in a display of splendour dancing in the sky.
The servants, who had been on their knees, arose and ran into the manor, seeking shelter from the upcoming storm.
The clouds by this time had reached him and as he looked around, he noticed that he could no longer see his tenants.
He turned back and continued to stare at his home, his heritage, as the thunder now shook the ground.
Still the falcon approached the house, circling in and out of the clouds and crying out in loud peals.
As this happened, bolts of lightning began striking the tall trees all around the great house and causing them to catch fire.
Then he realised that the falcon was not an angel, but a demon sent to torment him.
“No!” Darcy yelled to the large bird, as if hoping it, like everyone else, would obey his command and stop the destruction it seemed to be causing.
The bird continued to cry out, the only other sound Darcy could hear aside from the wind and thunder.
Then, as if on command, a large ball of fire descended from the sky and slammed into his home.
Flames instantaneously grew and reached to the sky.
The house and all it contained was consumed in the fire, his servants, his memories, gone.
The lugubrious sound of the falcon cut to his heart and left him grief-stricken, even as he watched his home go up in flames.
Darcy’s pain could not be measured as he watched all before him burn to nothing.
The falcon returned and alighted upon a large rock, not ten feet from him.
He cursed the bird and picked up rocks to throw at it, but stopped short as he looked into its expressive, green eyes that reminded him of someone dear to him.
He yelled out to her, attempting to undo the power she now held over him.
Her doleful eyes never left his as he fell into a trance.
It was then that he realised she was neither angel nor demon but his heart’s desire.
He tried to look away, but her charms held him fast. She finally released the spell as she turned towards the valley below where the blaze destroyed everything that was Pemberley, and she cried a mournful sound.
This could not be! How could she destroy everything and then return to bewitch him?
Then he understood that she was not controlling him; she was grieving with him.
They stood there alone in a type of companionable peace, staring at the great loss for what seemed like hours, then without warning, his dog turned into a large wolf and coming from behind, sunk its teeth into the luminous bird and dragged her away.
Darcy felt the loss acutely, perhaps even more than the loss of his home.
With tears streaming down his face, he began attempting to chase them, but his feet would not move, as if laden with stone.
He tried to scream out to stop, but was unable to make a sound, as she disappeared into the bramble.
Darcy awoke with a start, drenched in sweat and breathing rapidly.
He sat up in his bed looking around, half expecting to see his home aflame.
As he began to comprehend that he had been dreaming, that he was truly in London safely ensconced in his chamber, his anxiety began to dissipate.
The dream, so real, not a moment before began to fade in his memory, as dreams tend to do.
He noticed that the tears from his dream had made their way to his eyes in truth.
He wiped away the remnants of his slumber and stood, knowing that sleep would not return quickly.
His thoughts returned to Elizabeth, as they had so often done since departing Pemberley .
Could she be with child? He had decided to send an express to Pemberley in strictest confidence to obtain the information that he needed.
He now acknowledged his foresight in requesting that Elizabeth’s lady’s maid keep record of her courses.
He had originally desired this so he could know when he might approach her and when she might be increasing, but had soon forgotten about his intentions when he charged himself with keeping his distance.
Hopefully, if he sent a rider out at first light, he could have confirmation one way or the other by the fourth evening hence.
What he would do if she were with child, he did not know, but if she were not, that would negate Wickham’s claims. It was a first step, anyway.
Darcy paced his room for the next two hours, waiting for a suitable hour to request a rider.
Wickham wanted him to doubt Elizabeth’s faithfulness; he had always relished causing him pain, but as was also usual, he doubtless desired more.
There was sure to be money at the bottom of this, so more than likely Wickham would find him before Darcy could find Wickham, but he could not sit idle in the meantime.
He rang for his valet just before dawn, and then went to his study to await the appearance of Jonathon, who many times in the past had been asked to make rounds between London and Pemberley.
Darcy was having coffee in his study, trying to clear his head, when someone knocked on the door. “Enter,” Darcy commanded.