Colonel Fitzwilliam's Return (Netherfield Returns Book 3), page 1
Colonel Fitzwilliam’s
Return
Jann Rowland
By Jann Rowland
Published by One Good Sonnet Publishing:
Pride and Prejudice Adaptations
Colonel Fitzwilliam’s Return
Mr. Hurst’s Return
The Shades of Pemberley
More than Mere Civility
It Taught Me to Hope
Vicious Propensities
The Bennet Inheritance
Saving Anne de Bourgh
Mr. Darcy’s Return
Bingley’s Indignation
THE STORY, ALL NAMES, characters, and incidents portrayed in this production are fictitious. No identification with actual persons (living or deceased), places, buildings, and products is intended or should be inferred.
COLONEL FITZWILLIAM’S RETURN
Copyright © 2025 Jann Rowland
Cover Design by Getcovers.com
Published by One Good Sonnet Publishing
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 1-990856-99-3
ISBN-13: 978-1-990856-99-0
No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law.
To my family who have, as always, shown
their unconditional love and encouragement.
Table of Contents
Chapter I
Chapter II
Chapter III
Chapter IV
Chapter V
Chapter VI
Chapter VII
Chapter VIII
Chapter IX
Chapter X
Chapter XI
Chapter XII
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Chapter I
It is a truth universally acknowledged that a mother whose son returns home injured must at once consider him unfit for any exertion more taxing than the taking of tea. Colonel Fitzwilliam, who had survived both battle and the surgeon’s knife with enviable composure, found himself quite undone by her solicitude.
“The only thing that surprises me about this affair,” said Darcy, his voice tinged with amusement, “is that you did not expect your mother’s behavior when you came home with an injury.”
Fitzwilliam, who was pacing the room—a curious activity given the cane supporting his injured leg—turned a glare on his cousin. Darcy, he noted, appeared insufferably smug. To say anything would be to provoke his cousin, so Fitzwilliam eased himself into the chair across from Darcy’s and fixed him with an unfriendly glare.
“If I do not escape her mothering, I shall be fit for bedlam within a fortnight.”
“Aunt Susan will see reason,” replied Darcy, still sporting a faint smile. “If you recall, she has been uncomfortable with your profession since you purchased your commission—now, after you returned with a bullet in your leg, she not only wants to see to your recovery, but she has all the satisfaction of being proved right in her concerns for your safety.”
With a grunt, Fitzwilliam sat back, staring at the flames in Darcy’s fireplace, though seeing nothing of their dance, hearing no crackling, and smelling nothing of burning wood. As a man who had always enjoyed a close relationship with his parents, he could confess that his mother’s fright over his injury was nothing but a woman fearful for her child’s safety, even if that “child” was now approaching thirty. It was not her care and attention for him but the way she lingered about him, her insistence on his inactivity—as if a man might heal without testing an injured limb—and her increasing attempts to induce him to give up his profession. Fitzwilliam was not so insensible as to enjoy the prospect of battle, the possibility of returning home in a wooden box, but it was his chosen life—duty compelled him.
“I need to get away from London for a time,” muttered Fitzwilliam, considering his situation. “If I go to my father’s estate, my mother will only follow me there.”
Fitzwilliam grimaced. “Perhaps I should go to Rosings. At least there I will only need to endure Lady Catherine’s harangues about my carelessness rather than Mother’s excessive coddling.”
Darcy snorted a laugh. “If you will pardon me, Cousin, I cannot imagine that enduring Lady Catherine would prove less aggravating than abiding your mother.”
“Then we are in agreement,” replied Fitzwilliam.
“Some distance may be advisable,” said Darcy as if considering, “but I do not believe you would appreciate three days in a carriage with the roads jolting your injury every few moments.”
“That is the truth,” said Fitzwilliam.
“Then what of Hertfordshire?”
Fitzwilliam was not slow of thought—he understood Darcy’s meaning at once. “Stay with Bingley?”
“Bingley is no longer in Hertfordshire,” replied Darcy.
Perhaps it was merely his perception, but Fitzwilliam thought Darcy a little evasive. Darcy continued to speak, leaving him no opportunity to ask about it.
“The estate, however, is still in his possession. If you want, I could ask Bingley if he would allow you to stay for a few weeks.”
Considering this, Fitzwilliam said: “Netherfield Park, as I recall. Where is it?”
“Southwest of Stevenage, near a small market town called Meryton. Meryton is perhaps an equal distance between Stevenage and Luton.”
“Is there something wrong with the place?” asked Fitzwilliam. “Most families spend the winter at their estates. I might have thought Bingley’s harpy of a sister would be eager to lord over her brother’s estate so she could crow to all her friends about his new consequence.”
Darcy’s hedging persisted; he shifted in his seat as if the question were uncomfortable, before he ventured a response.
“There is nothing the matter with Netherfield. It is not Chatsworth, but it is a serviceable estate of perhaps five thousand a year, suited to a man in Bingley’s position. While I think Bingley enjoyed his time there, his sisters did not agree, claiming the society was savage.”
“And your opinion?” pressed Fitzwilliam, wondering if Darcy would reveal anything.
Darcy’s shrug was not unexpected. “It is a typical country society, though there are no estates of any considerable size in the district other than Netherfield. The people are not polished, but they are no worse than country gentlefolk in any other part of England.”
“As you know,” said Fitzwilliam, “I do not concern myself much with those who consider themselves polished. If Miss Bingley considers them savage, that is almost a point in their favor.”
“I care little more for Miss Bingley’s brand of insolence than you do,” replied Darcy.
“Then it sounds perfect. The difficulty will be convincing my mother to allow me to go alone.”
“Tell her that a friend has offered the use of the estate. She cannot invite herself to stay at a place that you are only borrowing.”
“Then I shall prepare. If you will arrange a meeting with Bingley, I shall be much obliged.”
As he had known, Bingley was agreeable to the suggestion, though Darcy could detect a hint of melancholy still hovering about him. Bingley’s acquaintance with Fitzwilliam was not so profound as Darcy’s, but they knew enough of each other to have a good opinion, though Darcy would not call them friends.
“Of course, you may use Netherfield,” replied Bingley. “I shall be in town through the season, so it will be empty anyway.”
“Thank you, Bingley.” Fitzwilliam regarded his friend and then said: “If you will excuse me, I’m curious about why you are not using it yourself. From what Darcy has told me, it seems an excellent situation.”
“Caroline does not appreciate Meryton,” replied Bingley, though with a grimace and a shake of his head.
“Perhaps not, Bingley.” Fitzwilliam’s gaze was steady but not judgmental. “If you will pardon my saying it, your sister does not hold the lease—you do. Should your sister prefer town, she may stay with your sister and her husband.”
With a nod that indicated he did not wish to speak of it, Bingley said: “You are correct, but I am fixed in London for the moment.”
“I did not mean to pry.”
“Not at all,” replied Bingley, his good humor restored. “As you wish to recuperate in peace, I dare say the place is perfect for you. Take all the time you need.”
“Thank you, Bingley. I shall try not to tax your patience too much by overstaying my welcome.”
That evening, Darcy sat in his study, seeing nothing before him. It had occurred to him that Fitzwilliam might learn the reason for Bingley’s retreat from Hertfordshire. That was not a problem, he supposed, as there was nothing shameful about Bingley’s departure other than the lack of any visits to the neighbors to announce their absence. Darcy had suggested otherwise, but Miss Bingley, eager to show her contempt, had maintained it was unnecessary, considering how little she esteemed those who lived there.
As Miss Bingley was not the subject of his ruminations, Darcy allowed thoughts of her to fade in favor of what else Fitzwilliam might find in Hertfordshire. His cousin was a social man, comfortable in any society—if he could endure conditions in a regiment with equanimity, he would not find Meryton at all daunting, nor would he hide away at Netherfield. He would socialize, meet the neighbors, and that meant also meeting the Bennets.
In a small part of Darcy’s mind, hidden away from the light, his reasons for departing Meryton were as much for his own benefit as for Bingley’s. Miss Elizabeth Bennet had proved too tempting a diversion from duty, and Darcy had left in part to achieve distance from her.
How he felt about his cousin meeting her, Darcy could not say, though he was not pleased with the notion that Fitzwilliam might find her agreeable—to meet a woman who had intrigued him far too much for years to come as the wife of his cousin was not at all palatable. Then again, Darcy knew Fitzwilliam needed to pay some attention to money when he married, as he had jested for many years. Fitzwilliam would find her an interesting woman and even grow to esteem her, but he did not suppose his cousin would lose his heart to her.
Regardless of what happened, the die was cast, and Darcy did not mean to retrieve it only to cast it yet again. Darcy did not intend to return to Hertfordshire, and he had no interest in making any overtures to Miss Elizabeth. At least, that was what Darcy told himself as he sat alone in his study.
SALVATION ARRIVED ONE morning in early December. The previous ten days had been trying for Elizabeth’s temper, rendering her unable to tolerate her mother’s company for even a few moments, leading to walks longer than the season allowed and solitude in her bedchamber. When she was in company, Mrs. Bennet spoke with unflagging vigor about her disappointment. Chief among these was, of course, Elizabeth’s refusal of Mr. Collins’s proposal.
“Mark my words, Lizzy Bennet,” her mother would say, her voice rising to an uncomfortable pitch, “if you take it into your head to refuse every offer of marriage you receive, you will never marry.”
Elizabeth had heard her say those exact words so many times that she began to dream them, which further soured her mood. It was silly, of course, for the only end for a woman who refused every offer of marriage was to remain unmarried, but Mrs. Bennet did not consider the futility of the statement, nor did she remember that Mr. Collins’s proposal was one, not many. Elizabeth understood her situation, knew that, despite the unkindness of Mr. Collins’s assertion that she may never receive another offer, it was not untrue. That was no reason for an intelligent woman to accept a man who would make her miserable, one to whom marriage would be a punishment she would need to endure every minute for the rest of her life.
When word arrived that Netherfield was once again occupied, Mrs. Bennet’s focus shifted away from her constant criticisms to delirious happiness that her dreams for her eldest daughter were not yet moribund. Elizabeth’s relief was profound, and her gratitude beyond words.
“Mr. Bingley has returned!” exclaimed Mrs. Bennet, almost insensible with relief and ecstasy. “I knew how it would be! I knew he could not leave Jane behind without a backward glance.”
“To the best of my knowledge,” replied Mr. Bennet as he read the newspaper, “we have no notion whether the resident at Netherfield Park is Mr. Bingley.”
“Who else would it be?” demanded Mrs. Bennet.
“I cannot say,” replied Mr. Bennet. “Yet I do not suppose we should put the cart before the horse until we know what the cart contains.”
Elizabeth thought this a reasonable suggestion, though she agreed with her mother that Mr. Bingley’s return was far more likely than any other member of that party enduring Netherfield again. It soon became a matter of renewed fretting for Mrs. Bennet, as whoever the new resident was, he did not visit Longbourn. As the situation persisted, Mrs. Bennet began to doubt her interpretation of the matter.
The Bennet family discovered the truth of the new resident only a few days after the mystery occupant’s arrival, though it was not what any of them suspected. The family was engaged to dine at the Gouldings’ estate, neighbors of longstanding. Several families in the district were present that evening, as was a man none of them had ever met.
He was tall, broad-shouldered, and, while perhaps not strictly handsome, was a striking man, with an aristocratic bearing and an easy jovial manner. Though Elizabeth could not say why, she thought his features were distinctive in a curiously familiar way, with his dark, wavy hair, chiseled features, and blue eyes. The notion persisted for a few moments, though his name Colonel Anthony Fitzwilliam meant nothing to her. The man was pleasant and easy in company, speaking and listening with no hint of hesitation, though Elizabeth noted that his eyes were often on the Bennets. A few moments before dinner, Elizabeth approached him, interested in learning more of this newcomer.
“Miss Elizabeth, was it not?” asked he, as she stood near him, ostensibly paying attention to another conversation, though hoping for some conversation with this man.
“Colonel Fitzwilliam,” replied she. “I must own that I am surprised to see you here. We were expecting Mr. Bingley, if anyone returned to Netherfield.”
The way the colonel looked at her showed his amusement. “It appears you possess a certain directness of manner, Miss Elizabeth—refreshing, I assure you. If only I could induce my regiment to follow your example.”
“It saves time,” was Elizabeth’s bland reply.
“Yes, I suppose it does. The truth is that Bingley is an acquaintance, and not one I know to any great extent. As I needed a place to convalesce for a few weeks and Darcy, who is my cousin, is an excellent friend of Bingley’s, he offered the use of his estate.”
“Mr. Darcy is your cousin?” asked Elizabeth, surprised by the connection.
“He is. Darcy’s mother was sister to my father.”
Eyes wide, Elizabeth said: “May I then assume that your father is Mr. Darcy’s titled relation?”
“One of them,” agreed Colonel Fitzwilliam. “Yes, my father is the Earl of Matlock and Darcy’s closest titled relations, but the Darcys are an old, respected family, possessing ties of some sort to many noble families.”
Elizabeth did not know quite what to say. Though Colonel Fitzwilliam must be a younger son, by society’s estimation, he was higher than Mr. Darcy, who was only a gentleman, albeit a wealthy man. Yet, whereas Mr. Darcy was proud, haughty, and above his company, Colonel Fitzwilliam was everything easy, quick with a jest, and appeared interested to know them all. This apparent reversal was curious, for Elizabeth would have expected the son of an earl to display more superior manners than a gentleman.
“You mentioned you are injured?” asked Elizabeth, grasping for something to say that did not reveal her dislike for his cousin.
The colonel gestured to a cane he held in his hand, and only then did Elizabeth notice he was resting most of his weight on his left leg. “I was recently on the continent in Spain when I was injured during a skirmish with French forces. As a colonel is not much value when he only has the use of one leg, they sent me home to recuperate.”
“Do not inform my youngest sisters of your position,” said Elizabeth with a laugh. “They will pester you for stories and dizzy you with their fluttering lashes if they learn of it.”
The colonel laughed as she intended. “Your youngest sisters love a man in uniform, do they?”
Elizabeth offered an exaggerated glance heavenward. “The local militia company comprises much of their conversation these days. I shudder to imagine what they might do if they learned a colonel of the army was in Meryton.”
Still chuckling, the colonel glanced about the room. “Can I assume they are in that group, giggling with several other young ladies?”
“The tall girl in blue sprigged muslin and the girl next to her in yellow,” replied Elizabeth, following his gesture. Lydia, the taller, is my youngest sister, and Catherine—whom we call Kitty—is the next eldest.”
“They are pretty girls, though I will own that I have seen their like before.”
“That, my dear colonel, is no surprise at all.”
“What of you, Miss Elizabeth?” asked the colonel, turning his frank gaze on her. “Do you, too, love a man in a red coat? Should I send to London for my uniform so that I can bedazzle you all?”
“A man in a red coat is, foremost, just a man,” replied Elizabeth. “I am more interested in his character than the color of his jacket.”
