by Beau North
“Oh Ben,” she said in a voice that wasn’t quite Aussie or English but a tremulous child of the two.
He let go of Penny (his sister!) to put his hands on the older woman’s shoulders. He leaned down and gently kissed one cheek and then the other.
“Evie.”
“You’ve grown so big and handsome, just like your father.”
He turned and gave Penny a questioning look. She nodded. “I’ve known for a few years.”
Evie shook her head. “Don’t hate me, Ben. I thought I was doing the kindest thing by not saying anything.”
He could have been angry, he supposed, if he’d wanted to. Would his life had been much different, knowing he had a sister? He knew one thing for certain, Richard Fitzwilliam would have moved heaven and earth to be in his daughter’s life. Maybe it would have made him bitter or made him hate Evie. He looked up to see Keisha standing with Penny. His father’s past, his own future. He knew which of the two he would choose every time. Let the past die, Pop. He smiled down at Evie.
“Of course I don’t hate you.”
She embraced him cautiously; he hugged her back with all the care required of handling a woman in her eighties, before meeting the rest of the family.
Not only did Ben have a sister but also a brother-in-law, Chris, a burly man with a bristle-broom mustache and bright eyes who worked as a wrestling coach for a college in Brisbane. He also had two nephews, Jake and Aaron, who were twelve and eight, respectively. He could see hints of the Fitzwilliam features in Aaron, but Jake was the spitting image of his own father. Ben watched the boys as they played X-Box with their cousins, strangely delighted at the prospect of having two nephews to spoil rotten.
“Jake was how I found out,” Penny told them as they sat around after dinner, long after Evie had claimed exhaustion and retired to her room. Pansy and Sadie were there with their husbands, listening in respectful silence. Occasionally one of them would confer quietly with Keisha, but for the most part, they let the lion’s share of the conversation go to Ben and Penny.
“I had eclampsia after giving birth and needed a transfusion. None of the family matched my blood type.”
“B negative?” Ben asked, sipping his club soda. She raised her bottle of beer in return. “Cheers.”
“Mum was in shambles when I confronted her about it. I’d nearly died having Jake, and now here I was, accusing her of all manner…” Chris put a supportive hand on her shoulder.
“It’s all right, love. You had a right to know,” he said tenderly.
“I was upset, for sure,” Penny continued. “It took a long time for me to understand why she’d let me live this lie all my life, thinking I had the same dad as Pans and Sadie. I was a bit miffed at them too, if I’m honest!”
“It didn’t matter, though, Pen,” Pansy insisted. Ben turned his gaze toward her. Both of Evie and Arthur’s daughters had inherited their mother’s red hair and sturdy frame, though Pansy had been keeping hers artificially red while Sadie had allowed hers to gray naturally.
“You were never something we were ashamed of,” Sadie continued. “You were always just our baby sister.”
“And I love you both for that, I do.” Penny reached over and squeezed her sister’s hand. “But it’s weird to spend your life thinking you’re one thing, only to find out you’re something else altogether.”
“Mum loved your dad, though,” Pansy said. “I remember Mum and Dad—Arthur, that is,” she said to Ben, “I can remember them having fights about him.”
“I only remember the one. Da was nagging her to write Richard and ask for money, and Mum wouldn’t budge. She said he was more than a bank to her. I never forgot that.”
“It’s strange to hear you say his name, if I’m being honest,” Ben said. “I wouldn’t have thought he was spoken of very often, considering.”
“Oh, not at all!” Sadie exclaimed. “He used to send us cards on our birthdays, and presents every Christmas. Mum would tell us about his adventures in America, about Maryland and New York and California. We adored Uncle Richard.”
“He came to visit once or twice when we were young,” Pansy said, nodding. “And Da’s funeral, of course. I remember how handsome he was! No offense, Ben, but when I saw you walking up the steps, I nearly fainted on the spot. I think your da might have been my first crush.”
Penny shrieked playfully, covering her face in embarrassment while everyone laughed. Ben chuckled, wondering if his father had suspected he was Pansy’s first crush.. Of course he knew. He was past the point of exhaustion; he’d entered into a sort of giddy stupor where all he could feel was a sleepy, bubbling happiness.
He looked over at Keisha, who smiled serenely back. She’d crossed the globe to see this through, to help him tell Richard’s story, and he loved her for it.
You always were a charmer, though, weren’t you, Pop?
They made love desperately, frantically, as if it were the first and last time.
He would have thought himself beyond performing, but after the long trip and the emotionally charged gathering, Ben needed to feel the heat of her body, needed to taste the sweetness of her kiss. Mostly he needed to feel this most essential connection, heart to heart, skin to skin.
He collapsed back against the pillows, already slipping into deep, black sleep. His hand reached for her, coming to rest on the smooth roundness of her hip. He realized with a start of surprise what day it was. One of the happiest days of his life, two years to the date after the worst, most terrifying. He hadn’t even realized so much time had passed. Life goes on, and on, and on, doesn’t it?
“Keisha.”
“Hmm?” she was drifting off too, the jet lag having finally caught up with her.
“I love you. Would you ever marry me?”
“Ask me again when we’re awake.” She paused a minute. “I love you, too.”
If she said anything after that, it was lost to him. He’d already heard everything he needed to hear.
April 6, 2004
Fitzwilliam House
Annapolis
Ben unlocked the door, exhausted from the weeks of travel. While Mateo Bertram’s family had been happy to help him, the authorities in Florida had been stubborn and mistrustful about releasing the records of Leland Collins’s death. He suspected their bureaucracy was designed in such a way to be unhelpful. Still, he was determined to make this book work, one way or another.
Once inside, Ben was greeted by the voice of Jackie Wilson singing “Higher and Higher.” He could hear Keisha singing along somewhere in the house. The sound hit him with such a joyful force that he dropped everything at his feet: messenger bag, keys, jacket, all in one heap. Like a sailor lured by sirens, he followed the sound, not to his destruction, but to the promise of his future. He found the windows open, a crisp breeze lifting the curtains. They almost seemed to be waving to him in greeting, welcoming him home. Bouquets of brightly colored flowers burst out of vases on every surface, giving the sunlit room splashes of pink and yellow and green. Over the fireplace, the stern-looking Dawson painting had been replaced by a large, bright canvas painted in rich jeweled tones—Mickalene Thomas’s Brown Sugar.
“That you, B&E?” he heard Keisha calling from deeper in the house.
“It’s me,” he called back, not wanting to startle her. She emerged from the long hallway, dressed in cut off sweats and tank top, curls kissing the luminous bare skin of her shoulders.
“I was just doing a little homemaking,” she said, moving for the stereo. “How was your trip?”
“Forget all that,” he said, taking her hand. “Leave the music.”
She smiled up at him, eyes shining. “Please don’t dance. I still want to respect you.”
He laughed and pulled her to him, kissing her full, waiting lips.
“I love you,” he said, cupping her face, thumbs caressing her silky skin. “In case you didn’t already know.”
Her lips quirked up in that lopsided smile that made his heart p
ound just a little bit harder. Her arms snaked around his neck, pulling him down for another kiss.
“I love you, too. I’m glad you’re home.”
Home. It was theirs now, not some monument of memory or misery, but a warm and colorful haven of sanity in a world that seemed to make less and less sense. He’d already offered the guest cottage on the property to Keisha’s sister Chantal and her two sons. He loved seeing the boys playing on the wide, sweeping back lawn. Under Chantal’s careful supervision, he was teaching them how to sail. After a strangely lonesome existence, he felt once more what it was like to be part of a family.
They embraced in the sunlit room, surrounded by music and color and the sweet warmth of Keisha’s body holding his own. What a gift he’d been given, this love, this life. He’d been outrunning death for three years, but with her at his side, he knew he wouldn’t be alone any longer. Hand in hand, they would chase down the dark together.
Ben said a silent thanks—to Charlotte for being brave enough to love, to Richard for being loving enough to give—before taking Keisha’s hand and leading her out onto the patio, into the brilliant day.
Epilogue
So there you have it. The many loves and many lives of Richard Fitzwilliam, tied up neatly in these pages.
If only life could be so tidy.
In 2013, and at the age of ninety-one, my mother, Charlotte Lucas Collins, got to add one more name when she finally, legally wed Anne DeBourgh. Five months later, she was gone, followed soon after by Anne. The townhouse in Gramercy Park was put into trust for my daughter, who I’m glad to say my mother and Anne both lived long enough to know.
My sister, Penelope, keeps in touch regularly and has flown out to visit a few times now. We still feel like strangers who are also old friends, but over the years, we’ve gotten much closer. She always has so many questions about our father. I’ve given her all her mother’s letters in the hopes that seeing Pop through Evie’s eyes will allow her to know him better. It’s still a punched-out hole that I can never quite fill, the mystery of Richard, but we’re trying. Maybe this book will help too.
Maggie and Tom Darcy are still on good terms. Shortly after this book was finished, we all drove down to South Carolina to the old Bennet farm. Aunt Lizzie’s sister Kitty still lives there with her husband Gregory Harlan, whose father was once foreman of Longbourn Farms. They have five daughters and twelve grandchildren. Jane, one of Kitty’s daughters, took us to a spot in between the Longbourn property and what used to be Charles Bingley’s home, Netherfield, before he sold it and moved back to Washington, DC. Next to a still pond in a little clearing in the woods was a massive oak tree. Jane pointed out the carving there, deep in the bark. It read: WD + EB. I think both Darcy siblings were touched to see that time-weathered proof of their parents’ immutable love.
Georgiana Darcy Prenska is still healthy and active at ninety years old. She lost her Ari only last year, but she still observes the traditions of her adopted faith.
I married Keisha Barnes in 2005, not long after she became a licensed private investigator. It was the happiest day of my life, until the arrival of our daughter, Ava, in 2009. It’s strange to watch a child grow up who didn’t know the world before that day in 2001. She’s six now and so curious about the world. I’ve put publishing this book aside, first to be a husband and a father, and then to publish a series of children’s books about other cultures and religions, hoping that understanding the unfamiliar will make her generation more loving than those that came before.
But now’s the time for this book, I think, watching my daughter grow up, seeing my father’s eyes in her face. I owe it to him. I owe it to her.
She is the last Fitzwilliam, after all.
April 2015
Annapolis
Acknowledgments
This book has been the work of many years, many failed attempts, and buckets full of tears. My vision for this story was too big, too grand, I could never completely fulfill the idea of the story I had in my head. This book is the promise of that story, the assurance to you that these characters have lived and breathed in my heart. They’ve been walking across my dreams for the better part of a decade now. It’s hard to let them go. So my first thanks goes to you, dear reader, for taking a chance on this story.
I have to thank Brooke West who has been on this journey with me from day one, who saw the potential in letting Richard take the wheel for a while.
Thanks as always to Christina Boyd for her always-thoughtful editing, and I want you all to know that it was my choice to use the word ‘Cadet’ on page 139 and I did so against her wishes. Thank you, Christina, for always wanting me to look my best.
Additional thanks to my readers: Chanda, Linda, Gena, Karen, Jenetta, Sarah, and Christina M. It was a big undertaking and I couldn’t have done it without you!
My history guru was Daniel Daugheetee of The Canon Ball Podcast and medical information was supplied by Emily Florio and Sarah Crawford. Thanks to Remy Maisel for advising me on Jewish holidays.
I’d like to give a nod to Adam Roche for his excellent podcast The Secret History of Hollywood, which has taught me more about story and structure than all my time at college. Adam, your beautiful prose kept me motivated through all my fits and starts, and for that I say thank you.
Last but not least I need to thank my family and my husband, Brian. This book might be dedicated to all the boys who broke my heart, but it wouldn’t have been possible without the one who put it back together.
About the Author
BEAU NORTH is the author of four books and contributor to multiple anthologies. Beau lives in Portland, Oregon with her husband. In her spare time, she is the co-host of the podcasts Excessively Diverted: Modern Classics On-Screen and Let’s Get Weirding: A Dune Podcast.