The Colonel

by Beau North

  You’ll never believe the uproar here. Just as you predicted, George is back without a pot to piss in. How he managed to go through ten grand in such a short span of time, I’ll never know. I know you said I should turn him away, but damn it, Richie, he’s just pitiful right now. I’m giving him a job. Nothing important, mind, he’ll just be taking care of the horses and helping Georgie train. You should have seen her on Cyrus last week; I nearly had a heart attack. I know she’s a young woman now, but Cyrus is still too big. I tried to tell her this, but she’s stubborn as...well, as a damn Darcy, I suppose. George was the only one who could talk her into jumping Pepper instead, so I’m grateful to him for that. And before you protest, just know that he’s only getting a weekly salary from me, and only what’s fair. I’m not being taken advantage of, though I appreciate your concern.

  Wave hello to the King for me while you’re over there. Happy trails, Rich.

  D

  The moment he stepped off the plane, he felt the clammy cold of England in his bones, a sensation that, in the two years since he’d returned from war, he’d never truly forgotten.

  It was not winter, and for that he was glad, but September existed in a strange no man’s land between summer and autumn, where a man could feel chilled even as sweat beaded his upper lip.

  Stepping carefully down from the plane, Richard told himself it was simply the weather. His sudden feverish sweat had nothing to do with the strangeness of this meeting, which had been months in the planning. For a moment, he regretted telling Darcy to stay home with Georgiana. He would have liked his cousin’s steady calm at his back, for what he faced now was both known and not known.

  Gripping his suitcase handle with nervous energy, he stepped inside the London airport, which was still new enough to shine.

  A little scream—a high, feminine sound, startled him. Standing a half-dozen feet away was a young woman in a long skirt and a woolen sweater that strained against the roundness of her pregnancy. Behind her, stood a beanpole of a man, simply dressed but well-groomed with the kind of neatness that could only come from time spent in the army.

  The woman rushed over to him, stopping abruptly just out of reach. She was, Richard admitted, very pretty with thick, wavy auburn hair and large eyes, the color of stormy water. She was young, too, he noticed. He knew that she was only twenty-four, as she’d been nineteen in ’41 when she’d met James. The same age as Eliz—he clamped down on the thought before it could fully form.

  “Mrs. Ward?” he asked. “Evelyn?”

  Her hand reached out toward his face; she snatched it away without touching him, the hand coming to rest against her belly.

  “I’m sorry,” she said, her face turning bright pink. Her voice, low and pleasant, conjured up clear turquoise waters and an endless, punishing sky. He’d never gotten to see Australia for himself, but James had described the place all too well in his letters, from the lush heat to the monstrously large fruit bats that swooped through the night sky.

  “It’s just that…you look so much like him!” she said, tears filling her eyes.

  Richard smiled, the picture of patience. Behind that smile, he felt a million vaguely definable things: the loss of James; a desperate wish that he could have been there in Richard’s place; a sudden, maddening desire to turn around and flee. But there was another feeling beneath it all. A momentary spark of recognition. Here was the woman who James had loved, a person who had known him not as a brother or a son but as a man.

  “It’s…I can’t tell you how good it is to meet you,” he said.

  She nodded, turning her face into her husband’s chest. The beanpole put one arm around his weeping wife, patting her back. The other he held out to Richard, his smile friendly and welcoming.

  “I take it you’re Richard,” the man said, his voice properly English.

  “Ah, Mr. Ward.” Richard took the man’s hand and gave it a firm shake.

  “Please, call me Arthur,” he said kindly before turning his attention back to his wife, who was wiping her eyes.

  “Are you all right, m’love?” he asked tenderly, and Richard felt a wash of relief, that this man was caring and kind to the woman his brother once loved, the woman who, in a better world, would have been his sister.

  “Sorry!” she said, laughing. Her eyes were bright, her smile embarrassed. “I think this baby has made me go slightly mad! I’m glad that you’ve come, Richard.”

  Richard looked from Evelyn Ward to her husband and felt something like kinship. It was not being with James, exactly, but he felt very near just then. So very near.

  When he spoke, he was all sincerity.

  “I’m very glad to be here.”

  He woke in his hotel room gasping and sweating, chasing the thin tendrils of his dream into wakefulness. He couldn’t quite remember the specifics, but he knew it had been a good dream. His fingers reached out, finding the switch on the bedside lamp. His watch told him it was five in the morning in London but only midnight in Annapolis. He lay there a few long minutes, thinking of the stationery on the desk.

  Why do you keep doing this to yourself?

  With a sigh, he rose, washed his face, and brushed his teeth before venturing downstairs to the tea shop. To his surprise, Evie was already there, holding a steaming cup with two hands, as if it were a precious relic. She looked up at him and smiled, and for the first time, Richard could see what drew James to her. She’s pretty, but, when she smiles, she’s beautiful. Her bright red hair was hidden under a kerchief, making her look young, almost girlish. Her eyes were that particular color of gray that could be green or hazel or blue depending on what colors she wore. Fairy eyes.

  “Good morning,” she greeted him. Color rose in her cheeks.

  “May I join you?”

  “Please do.”

  He sat. A woman in a brilliant white smock came and brought him his own pot of tea and asked if he’d like beans and toast. His stomach clenched at the thought.

  “Just the tea. Thanks.”

  He looked back at Evie, who seemed to be studying the contents of her teacup.

  “Are you all right?” he asked.

  She looked up at him and smiled, but unlike her earlier, transforming smile, this one was more subdued.

  “It’s just going to take some getting used to,” she explained. “Seeing him in your face.”

  Richard nodded while he poured his tea. “You must have loved him very much.”

  “Who couldn’t have loved him?” She wiped a tear from her cheek. “Sorry. I feel like I won’t stop crying until this baby comes. Everything makes me cry these days. Everything.”

  Richard cleared his throat and told her it was perfectly fine. Talk of children and the bearing of them was well out of his depth.

  “Do you miss him?” she asked suddenly and then just as swiftly said, “What a stupid question. Of course you do.”

  “Every damn day. There’s so much that’s happened since…so much I wish I could tell him.”

  “I write to him sometimes,” Evie said, putting her teacup down with care. Richard’s heart jumped.

  “I understand better than you know,” he admitted.

  “You do?”

  Richard hesitated. He didn’t know this woman, not really. Could he unburden himself to her? Would she think worse of him for it?

  “I’ve suffered…other losses. One of my own doing. I…when I think of her, I put those thoughts to paper. I write her letters that I never send.”

  “Does it help?” Evie asked. There was no judgement in her eyes, only curiosity.

  Richard exhaled heavily. “I honestly can’t tell. Sometimes I think it makes it all worse. Other times it’s like…purging.”

  “Do you think…?” She bit her lip. “Do you think you could write to me? I don’t mean to be forward. It’s just…you’re the last link I have to James.”

  He smiled. “And you’re the last link I have to James. If Arthur won’t mind, I’d be delighted.”

  Ma
rch 13, 1946

  Dear Slim,

  I’ve come to England again. Strange to think it, but it looks very different than it did a few years ago. Less rubble, for one thing. So many things destroyed here, but the less said about that the better. I’ve come to meet the person my brother loved. She’s a good, kind woman with a sense of humor. I think you would have liked her. She’s married now, with her first child well on the way, and while I’m happy for her and her husband (a fine young man), I can’t help but feel the loss of James all over again. This should have been his wife, his child. I know it’s not rational, but really, when have I ever been known for that?

  When I was packing, I came across a relic in my bag. A picture of you, standing on the boardwalk. Holding a picture of us. You’re still the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. I will never love any person, place, or thing the way that I have loved you, and I gotta say that I’m glad of it. I’ve only got so much of myself left. The rest I gave to you, or burned.

  What we were, we can never be again. We will live the rest of our lives as strangers. Memories made softer, kinder, in the passing of years. This is safer, the impossibility that actually having you in my life again could ever measure up to the memory of you.

  That day, the day after we met, I was waiting for you, knowing somehow that you would show up. And you did. You looked at me like you knew me. You saw me. And I saw you, or I thought I did. I saw a puzzle, an angel, a reason to stop measuring my life in hours. It was too much to put on your shoulders. Still, I can’t bring myself to regret the steps that brought me here. Even the end. Because losing you made loving you that much sweeter.

  Yours, always,

  R

  (letter unsent)

  10

  May 25, 1947

  Pemberley Manor

  Lambton

  Georgiana made sure her hair was sitting just so before leaving her room with a spring in her step. She’d learned how to coif it just so thanks to Caroline Bingley, her new friend and confidante, who’d only just left a few days ago with her brother, Charles. It had been a wonderful visit, apart from her brother’s gloomy moods. She knew that Caroline Bingley was quite a bit older than she was, but she’d never truly had a female friend to call her own, someone who knew her secrets and understood her heart’s desire.

  “Everyone wants to be loved,” she’d said one night. “Not everyone is so lucky as to find it.” Georgiana smiled. She did feel lucky. George was…well, he was a bit of a pill, but she adored him, warts and all. She only hoped that now that Richard had come to stay for a spell, he’d keep her brother distracted enough to give her time alone to explore all these new feelings, these new…experiences.

  Speak of the devil…

  She’d only come into the breakfast room to grab some orange juice before her ride. To her surprise, Will and Richard were sitting down, eating what looked to be a mountain of pancakes. Mrs. Reynolds seemed to be making good on her promise to fatten Richard up.

  “G’morning, Geowrgy,” Richard said through a mouthful of breakfast. Georgiana bent down and pecked him on the cheek. She’d been so happy he’d come to visit so soon after his trip to England. Georgiana loved Richard dearly, almost as much as Will. It did her heart good to see him looking…well, still not quite himself. But better, and there. He was there, and he was alive, and that was what mattered most.

  “Off to ride again?” her brother asked. There was an insinuation in his tone that raised her hackles.

  “As a matter of fact, I am.”

  His features, so like their father’s that sometimes it hurt her to look at him, drawn down into a scowl.

  “I was hoping you would join us for breakfast this morning.”

  Damn it. She forced herself to smile.

  “Of course, William. I can ride after breakfast.”

  “Or maybe you can give Merry a break for the day?”

  “But…it’s a beautiful day and…” She searched for the words.

  “Oh, let her ride,” Richard said, winking at her. “I wouldn’t want to sit here and watch us chew either.”

  Bless him! She felt a rush of gratitude and affection. Her brother, however, only looked more severe at Richard’s interjection.

  He sighed. “Georgie, I know you’ve been hanging around Wickham a lot since he came back. At first I thought it was harmless. You have known him all your life, and he is…objectively better company than I am most days.”

  Richard snorted. “According to who?”

  “Who says I’m hanging around—”

  “But it’s been six months, and you’re still following him around like a dog after a bone.”

  “I do not!” she protested, stung.

  “I don’t like that analogy, D,” Richard said, scowling at him.

  “Oh, I’m so sorry if I offended your sensibilities, Richard.” Her brother rolled his eyes.

  “William, you are being so unfair!”

  “As your guardian, it’s my job to be unfair.”

  “Is this true, Georgie?” Richard asked, brows drawn down in concern. “You’re not getting a crush on Wickham, I hope. This might be the pot calling the kettle black, but believe me when I tell you that you should set your sights higher.”

  “Of course not!” she shouted, stamping her foot. She hated how petulant she sounded, how very like the child they saw her as.

  William held up a hand to silence her. “Georgie, how is he going to get any work done if you’re making him entertain you all day?”

  “Ooh, William!” Georgiana turned and flounced out of the room. There was one person she knew she could talk to, one person who knew what it was like to be a young woman in love. She stormed into the room Mrs. Reynolds used as an office, a room where her mother had once reigned. The thought, bittersweet as it was, held no connection for Georgiana. She had never really known Anne Darcy. How different would I be if I had? She wondered as she picked up the phone and gave her instructions to the operator.

  A moment later she heard Caroline Bingley’s bright voice on the other end.

  “Georgiana, darling. What took you so long?”

  June 1, 1947

  Dear Richard,

  I see the problem between your cousins―one of them is a teenage girl, and you nor her brother have any idea what that entails. I’m only twenty-four. It wasn’t that long ago that I was one myself. I can’t explain to you what it feels like. You’re mad as a cat half the time. Everything is changing. There is a rush to be as grown as one can be as quickly as possible. It’s not an easy thing, and I’m sure they can mend fences with a few kind words and a little more patience. She is going to want to make her own choices. Any effort to make those choices for her is only going to make her more set on her course, believe me.

  We can only hope her brother is wrong about this Wickham fellow or, at least, hope he’s not as bad as you seem to think he is!

  Please keep me abreast of how things turn out. And to answer your question, the lawyers assure me that all the paperwork for the bequest is correct and everything is on schedule. It still astonishes me that James would do such a thing. He truly was one of the kindest souls I had the good fortune to know. I know how fond Arthur is of his mum, but I am looking forward to leaving London for the country. The city is still rebuilding itself after being shelled to kingdom come, and the noise and dust are all just too much for me.

  Until next time, your friend,

  Evelyn Ward

  Richard found Georgiana practicing in the music room. It was a strange juxtaposition seeing this younger, softer version of his aunt Anne, sitting where she so often sat, dressed like a farmhand, and pounding out some doleful dirge.

  “That’s cheerful,” he commented as he came in, shutting the door behind him. Georgiana didn’t look up, but he saw the stubborn set of her chin and smiled. She might look like a Fitzwilliam, but she’s as Darcy as Will.

  “Have you come to tell me I’m being a lovesick child, too?” she asked.

  �
�I wouldn’t dream of it. May I?” He pointed at the space next to her on the bench. She slid over for him.

  Richard’s fingers slid over the keys. It felt clumsy. He hadn’t played since before the war.

  “What’s that?” Georgiana asked. She knew he could play, of course. They all played piano to some degree of skill. He wasn’t as good as she was, only slightly better than Will. Anne, they’d discovered years ago, was absolutely dreadful.

  “‘Stardust.’ Hoagey Carmichael.”

  “It’s pretty.”

  “Yeah, it’s not too shabby.”

  She sat and listened to him for minute before asking, “Is William mad at me?”

  He grinned at her. His fingers moved with more confidence now. “He could never be mad at you. He’s just worried about you, is all.”

  She scowled, making him laugh. “You know, you look just like him when you do that. You’d better smile quick, before your face freezes that way.”

  “Do you think I’m being a lovesick child?”

  He stumbled on the next note, stopped. The silence was louder than any pounding on the keys would have been.

  “Not at all. Well, not lovesick anyway. I know lovesick, believe me, Georgie.”

  A shadow passed over his face. It couldn’t be helped.

  “You?” she asked.

  He smiled faintly, touching the keys again, albeit halfheartedly. “Love is…not something that makes you sick. The want of it is.”

  “Who is she?” She was truly curious, but Richard couldn’t bring himself to talk about it. If he told Georgiana, he’d have to admit the terrible thing he’d done. The way he’d abandoned her. He couldn’t even bring himself to say her name.

  “It doesn’t matter,” he said eventually. “She’s…out of the picture. She can do better than some broken-down, old soldier.”

  “What a load of hooey. The only person better than you is William.”