Page 194 of Pride and Prejudice Resolutions

Chapter Eighteen: The Arrival at Thornwood

Colonel Richard Fitzwilliam—former colonel, he reminded himself with a wry twist of his mouth—stepped down from the Matlock carriage as the sun dipped low over the Kentish horizon. The journey had been interminable, the roads a slog of mud and ruts that had tested even the sturdy family coach. He stretched his legs, feeling the ache of hours confined in a swaying box, and looked around at his new domain.

Thornwood. Darcy had described it modestly—a "small estate" in need of management, nothing grand. Richard had pictured a cottage, perhaps a modest manor house with a few acres of garden and a pond for fishing. What greeted him instead was a charming Georgian edifice of warm red brick, flanked by well-tended gardens and a sweep of gravel drive that spoke of quiet prosperity.

It was no Pemberley—Darcy's sense of scale was muddled by the grandeur of his own seat—but it was an actual estate house, modest but substantial, with mullioned windows and chimneys puffing faint smoke. Fields stretched beyond, dotted with sheep, and a copse of oaks whispered in the evening breeze. It felt possible. A place where a man could rebuild without the weight of expectations and threats to their life.

"Not bad, cousin," he murmured to the absent Darcy. "Not bad at all."

The front door opened with a creak, and three figures emerged: an elderly butler with a stoop that spoke of years of service, a plump housekeeper in starched apron and cap, and a weathered steward leaning on a cane, his face lined like old leather.

"Colonel Fitzwilliam?" the butler inquired. His voice was polished despite the rural setting. "I am Wilkins, sir. Welcome to Thornwood."

Richard nodded, shaking hands all around. "Thank you, Wilkins. And you must be Mrs Barlow?" He turned to the housekeeper, who curtsied with a warm smile.

"Aye, sir. We've been expecting you. The fires are lit, and dinner's nearly ready—simple fare, but hearty."

"And Mr Hodges." Richard clasped the steward's gnarled hand.

The old man nodded. "Pleasure, sir. The estate's in fair shape, but she'll need a firm hand. Crops are coming in well this year—wheat and barley mostly—and the tenants are reliable, barring old Widow Jenkins, who argues over every farthing."

Richard chuckled. "We shall manage. Perhaps tomorrow you could give me a tour of the grounds? First light, if it suits."

Hodges brightened. "Aye, sir. I'll have the horses saddled."

"Black Thunder, my horse, will arrive later in the week. Keep an eye for him. He is touchy."

Hodges laughed. "Of course, sir. I have a way with horses."

The staff bustled him inside. Wilkins took his greatcoat and Mrs Barlow chattered about the linens being fresh-aired. The house was cosy—oak-panelled halls, a drawing room with faded but comfortable furnishings, and a dining room that smelled of roast beef.

Richard dined alone at a table set for one. The meal was simple: roast, boiled potatoes, and a salad of greens from the kitchen garden. The silence was profound, broken only by the tick of a grandfather clock and the occasional pop from the fire. No regimental mess-hall banter, no family clamour. Just him, contemplating the turn of his life over a glass of mediocre brandy—thin and sharp, nothing like the Matlock cellars.

He had resigned his commission that morning. He signed the papers with a flourish that masked the pang in his chest. Soldiering had been his identity, his escape from second-son obscurity. Now? Thornwood. His debts were settled by his father (a bribe, he had called it). He took this chance to prove himselfwithout a woman's dowry hanging over him like a sword. It was freedom, of a sort. But as he sipped the brandy, his thoughts drifted inevitably to her. Caroline.

He raised his glass in a silent toast. "To new horizons," he muttered. "And to hell with the West Indies."

Exhaustion claimed him early. He retired to the master bedroom—a spacious chamber with a four-poster bed and windows overlooking the gardens. The sheets were crisp, the fire banked low. Two glasses of brandy warmed his veins, and he fell asleep to the hoot of an owl outside. Dreams came swiftly: a bowl of lemons, tart and bright. Fierce green eyes sparking with indignation. A cascade of red-fire hair like autumn leaves. And, absurdly, a frog croaking defiantly from a pond, as if mocking his earlier vow.

He slept deeply—until the banging started.

It was the dead of night. The pounding echoed from below, insistent and frantic, accompanied by muffled shouts and the clatter of boots on gravel. Richard bolted upright. His heart raced like he had heard a French bugle. Highwaymen? A fire? Poachers on the grounds? His mind ran through possibilities, each more dire than the last.

He snatched his breeches from the chair, yanking them on over his nightshirt—no time for a waistcoat, cravat, or boots—and grabbed a heavy poker from the hearth as a makeshift weapon. He dashed downstairs barefoot.

The commotion grew louder in the hall: voices arguing in heated whispers, a woman's sharp command cutting through the din like a sabre through silk. Wilkins's sleepy murmur rose in confusion, Mrs Barlow's gasp of alarm pierced the air, and Hodges's gruff rumble demanded to know what in blazes was going on.

Richard's pulse thundered in his ears as he descended the last flight, the poker raised high, his military instincts kicking in—assess, engage, overpower. He burst into the entrance hall, the door flying open with a bang against the wall. He was ready for battle. His bare chest heaved under the half-open nightshirt, and he planted his feet wide on the chilly stone floor.

What he found stopped him cold. The poker drooped in his hand as disbelief washed over him like a bucket of Thames water.

A pack of intruders—familiar intruders—stood clustered in the flickering light of a single lantern held aloft by Wilkins, who looked as bewildered as if the Prince Regent himself had come calling at midnight.

His brother Robert was mud-spattered from head to toe. His coat was caked in road grime and his boots were leaving filthy prints on the hall rug. He was grinning like a madman who had just won a wager on a three-legged horse.

His cousin Darcy was looking equal parts exasperated and amused. His usually impeccable cravat had given up on respectability and his hair was tousled from what must have been a long journey. He stood with his arms crossed as if debating whether to intervene or retreat.

Colonel Lindon was in uniform. A streak of mud run across his cheek, and he was clapping Robert on the back with the camaraderie of old campaigners.