by Beau North
Richard woke suddenly, soaked in sweat with his heart slamming in his chest. For a few moments, he wondered where he was until the dark emptiness of his room became familiar to him again. He could hear the ocean outside his window, the sound of the tide beating against the sand in its own helpless rhythm. Charleston, he reminded himself. The scars on his abdomen throbbed dully; his fingers probed the area with care. When he was satisfied everything was where it should be, he sat up, putting his feet on the floor. It helped acclimate him to his surroundings. Still shaking from his dream, he made his way to the tiny bathroom, snapping on the light before splashing his face with cool water from the sink.
His reflection in the mirror rattled him. He thought he’d been getting so much better, but his hollowed cheeks told him he’d lost weight, and the dark shadows under his eyes spoke of his recent sleepless nights. The puffy scar on his collarbone shone garishly against his tan. Richard shuddered and touched the tattoo on his arm. He could trace the lines of it with his fingertips. It soothed him somewhat, though the vestiges of his dream still clung to him. The specter of James hovered over him in that bombed-out café in Brest, his flesh bloated and grey. Richard could still feel the rubble digging into his back, the stickiness of the German’s blood as it cooled on his skin. James opened his mouth to speak, and rank, briny seawater spilled out in a flood, drowning him.
Richard turned off the bathroom light and flopped back on to the lumpy bed. He closed his eyes and conjured her image. Slim laughing. Slim running. Slim tired and happy in his arms. It wasn’t enough to send him to sleep, but after a few minutes, his heart resumed its normal rhythm. Brandishing his thoughts of her like a miner holding a lantern, Richard felt himself plunged into an unnavigable despair. Would he ever know sleep again? Or peace and calm? Helpless tears rolled down his face. It can’t go on this way.
***
Richard brushed as much of the sand as he could off his shoes. He’d taken a longer walk than usual that day. The sky was turning dark by the time he reached his hotel.
He didn’t see the dark gray sedan parked across the lot. His troubled thoughts were of her as they were most often.
They had a fight that day. Their first. She wanted to leave college, to stay there and be with him. It hit him just how much she was willing to give up for him. He knew he had to tell her the truth about himself, and soon. The nights had been getting worse; his sleep was brief and full of terrors. He’d been quieter of late, sometimes barely speaking a word all day.
The only thing that hadn’t changed was his need for her, but that didn’t reassure him. If anything, it made him feel worse. What if I’ve only been using her? He loved her, he knew that, but he couldn’t say his love was entirely selfless. The truth was, he wanted her to quit college. He wanted to marry her so she’d never get away. She’d be his sun and keep his darkness at bay for as long as she could. Every day he could feel it closing in a little more.
He hated himself for thinking these things. What kind of a life would that be for someone so young and unfettered by life?
“Richie,” a cool voice spoke from behind him as if Richard’s thoughts had summoned him to the spot. He froze at the sound of it, ice forming in his veins. That voice belonged to a ghost, one of the faces from those faded photographs. He stood slowly, turning towards his visitor.
Darcy still cut an impressive figure, even sweating in his lightweight linen.
“Hello, D,” Richard said cautiously. “Been a long time. How did you find me?”
“Croghan’s,” Darcy said, somewhat apologetically. “The bill came to Pemberley.”
The locket, of course. Richard frowned. “Why would that bill come to you? It’s my father’s account.”
“You have to come home,” Darcy said without preamble. Richard snorted, shaking his head.
“Nice try, D. I am home.”
“Something’s happened,” Darcy said. “I don’t know what you’ve been doing all this time, but your family needs you.”
“What’s happened? Is it Georgie, or Anne?”
“No, they’re fine.” Darcy exhaled heavily. “It’s…there’s no easy way to say this, Richie. Your father had a stroke three weeks ago.”
Richard frowned at the shoes in his hand as if he’d never seen them before. He couldn’t remember what he’d been doing with them. Darcy put a hand on his shoulder.
“I’m sorry, Richie. He didn’t make it.”
Something inside of Richard snapped. He barked a laugh and threw his shoes down onto the walk, shrugging off Darcy’s hand. I’m the last Fitzwilliam. The joke’s on me. He started to walk away, then stopped and turned around.
“And what am I supposed to do about it?” He seethed. “I’m no good to him now just like I was no good to him then.”
Darcy, who had loved and been loved by his father, was taken aback by Richard’s response. “You don’t mean that.”
“God knows I love you, D. You really don’t see anything wrong with our family, do you? You wonderfully naive son of a bitch.”
“Richie…I know you two were never close, but it’s not just about that. He wasn’t your only family. You still have me and Georgie and Anne and, damn it, even Aunt Catherine! We’ve been worried sick about you for months! And you’ve been out here, surviving on God knows what—”
“I get by.”
“Clearly! Do you have to pay extra for fleas, or are they included in the rent? You’re buying jewelry, so there must be a woman… I don’t know what kind of woman would come into a place like this, even with you, but I’m willing to bet that she—”
Richard reached out without thinking, grabbing Darcy by the lapel. His cousin’s back slammed against the side of the building, Richard’s arm an iron bar across his chest. He wasn’t as brawny as Darcy, but the months of manual labor had given Richard a wiry strength he hadn’t had even in the army.
“You want to be careful about what you say next,” Richard said with rage. “You don’t know a goddamned thing about it.” A second later, he released Darcy, leaning miserably against the wall, burying his face in his hands.
“Oh God, D. I have to go back, don’t I?”
Even as he said it, he knew the truth of it—that he was damaged, maybe beyond repair—that she deserved better than whatever broken half-life he could give her. He didn’t want to see their love die a slow death or watch the years of resentment steal the light in her eyes. If he could do one thing right by her, one selfless act in his whole life, it would be to let her go.
“Do you need a day to…say your good-byes?” Darcy asked with more tact than Richard ever would have credited him. The thought of saying good-bye to her, to laying these burdens at her feet, was almost too much for him, and he knew all it would take was one look at her to shake his resolve.
“No,” he said finally, miserably. “Can someone pick up—?” He gestured to his motorcycle.
“It’s already done,” Darcy said reassuringly. “We can leave now.”
Richard closed his eyes and listened to the ocean—the relentless push and pull of the tide on the beach. He took a minute to grieve for what he was about to lose.
“Just let me get my things,” he said, and slipped into his room, shutting the door behind him. He looked around the little room where he’d been so happy and saw the truth of what Darcy said.
Cobwebs laced the high corners of the room. The painted plaster was swollen and cracked in more than one place. It was a sad room, or it would have been if not for her. She seemed to haunt every corner; he knew if he buried his face in the pillows, he would still smell her there.
“My father is dead,” he said to the empty room.
The room didn’t answer.
He didn’t bother to check his tears as he packed hastily, stuffing his clothes into his battered duffel bag. He was about to leave when he turned back and opened the nightstand. Inside were the box her locket had come in and a copy of the King James Bible. Tucked under the bible was a packet of papers, prepared what s
eemed like a lifetime ago, and yet closer now than ever.
He grabbed the packet and stuffed it into his bag, not bothering to lock the door behind him as he left.
[1] “You killed Klaus! You killed my brother!”
Chapter Eleven
The coffee was cold by the time Richard finished talking. He drank some anyway. Darcy swallowed the knot that had been lodged in his throat the whole time.
“That’s…quite a lot to take in, Richie.”
Richard nodded. “I’m sorry you didn’t know sooner.”
Darcy thought about how stupid all of it was. Could he have safeguarded his heart in time had everyone known the truth sooner? Why had he never once even mentioned Richard’s name in her company?
He knew why, of course. Because at first he had been so wrapped up in the idea that she belonged to him, he expected everything of her and had given her nothing of himself. How long had it taken her to pry the most basic information from him? Who the hell did he think he was?
He had no one to blame but himself.
Darcy cleared his throat. “So, what happens now?”
Richard looked thoughtful. “Isn’t that the question?”
***
Elizabeth had been correct about one thing. When Charles Bingley announced his engagement to Jane Bennet, a chorus of chagrined groans and incredulous no’s could be heard through the crowd gathered at Netherfield.
Caroline Bingley, whatever her faults, was the finest hostess Meryton had ever seen. She had turned Netherfield into a modern and grand setting for her brother’s birthday celebration. Hundreds of lights were strung, and lanterns hung from tree branches, giving the evening a soft glow.
A full ensemble of musicians sat in rows on the stage that had been rented for the occasion, while on the dance floor couples—both lavishly and modestly dressed—swirled and bobbed, laughter and music filling the night. Dozens of extravagantly set tables proceeded the dance floor, and men in immaculate white jackets weaved in and out of the throng of guests, carrying silver trays piled high with seasonal fruits, bite-size delicacies, and sparkling glasses of champagne, which everyone except the Baptists enjoyed.
Everyone seemed to be having the time of their lives, with the exception of four uncomfortable guests. Elizabeth could easily see the bruises on Richard’s face and the scrapes on Darcy’s knuckles. She made it a point not to look too closely at either lest she start to dwell on why they’d been fighting. She chose instead to seek out Charlotte Lucas, who she found sitting alone with a bewildered look on her face.
“Charlotte! Darling, what’s wrong?”
Charlotte looked at her friend. She opened her mouth and closed it again. Elizabeth sat down and took her hand.
“I think you’d better tell me,” Elizabeth said, beginning to worry.
“Lizzie, I…I have something to tell you.”
“Have you done it then?” Elizabeth asked hopefully. “Dumped that awful cousin of mine?”
Charlotte paled. “Quite the opposite,” she said, looking down at her hands. Elizabeth gasped to see a ring, a rather gaudy diamond, on the ring finger of her friend’s left hand.
“Charlotte—” Mr. Lucas surprised them, pushing Elizabeth aside to pull his daughter into a happy embrace. Elizabeth’s eyes found John’s. An understanding passed between them. Neither of them was happy with the arrangement.
Elizabeth walked away numbly. She stopped the first waiter who passed, taking two glasses of champagne before finding a quiet place to drink them both. Her head spun with Charlotte’s news, and she was ready to use any means necessary to come to grips with it.
She spotted Darcy out of the corner of her eye, admiring him as he moved through the crowd. He was dressed for the occasion in an inky black suit that was perfectly cut for his broad frame. With his hair combed neatly back, he bore an unapproachable, dignified look. Elizabeth found that she missed the rumpled man who’d thrown acorns at her window.
As she was watching him, his eyes flicked up and locked on to hers as if he’d sensed her stare. She turned away nervously, draining her glass.
“Oh buck up and get over yourself, Lizzie,” she mumbled to herself, and after finishing her second full glass of champagne, she was intent on speaking to him. She knew where they stood. She straightened her shoulders as she approached; suddenly glad she had raided her savings to buy the new dress she wore.
She felt like a star in the rich, emerald-colored chiffon that clung to her torso, leaving her arms and part of her back bare. The skirt floated like a cloud around her, stopping just below her knees. She allowed Lydia to style her hair that night, and when she stood before the mirror, she hardly recognized herself.
And judging from the dark look Darcy gave her as she approached him, neither did he. She swallowed and opened her mouth to say something brilliant and memorable.
“Hello.”
Darcy nodded to her. “Miss Bennet.”
Elizabeth faltered, his formality making her unsure. “I was just wondering,” she said in a rush, “what it is about a dance floor that terrifies you so?”
He looked taken aback for a moment. “Aren’t you afraid of me?”
“No.” She lied. “I’m not afraid. There’s no place for fear in Valhalla.”
He gave her a considering look, stuffing his hands into his pockets. “Do you know what terminal velocity is, Elizabeth?”
She shivered at the way he caressed her name. “Do you, Mr. Darcy? Whatever it is, it definitely sounds like something folks talk about at parties.”
“It’s what happens when an irresistible force”—he reached out and touched one of her silky curls, letting it slide slowly through his fingers—“meets an immovable object.”
Her eyes widened slightly. A nervous smile appeared on her face. “Immovable, are you? A fine pun, sir. I never would have thought you had it in you.”
“Oh, I think it would surprise you what Darcy is capable of,” Richard said from behind her, making her jump. He seemed perfectly at ease as he smiled gently at her, quite the opposite of his cousin.
“Hello, Slim. You look pretty all dressed up like that. Care to dance?”
She looked up at Darcy, hopeful, but it seemed he was determined to remain an immovable object.
Ask me, you big oaf, she thought, but Richard had already grabbed her hand, steering her away. She sighed heavily as he led her out on the dance floor, where they fell into step with easy grace. Just like old times.
“You look terrible,” she said, training her eyes over his shoulder so she wouldn’t have to look up at him.
“Misunderstanding. Do you remember this?” he asked softly, referring to the song. It was “I Wish I Didn’t Love You So.” Her mouth twisted up in that quirky little smile he once loved so much.
“Poor Mr. and Mrs. Bradshaw,” Elizabeth said with a little laugh. “I don’t think they ever believed that I was the groom’s second cousin.”
“Of course you probably could have worked up more believable aliases than Maury and Ludmilla Lipschitz.”
She laughed, really laughed then. “I’d forgotten all about that.”
His voice was a low caress, full of longing and regret. “I haven’t forgotten a single minute of it.”
Elizabeth’s face burned. She finally turned her eyes up to him, trying to ignore some familiar stirrings. He lost the place he had held in her heart once, but it seemed as if he was still in there, somewhere. Elizabeth wasn’t foolish enough to fall for him again, but she allowed herself to admit that a part of her would always be his.
They danced the rest of the song in silence.
***
Charlotte was bearing the congratulations and well-wishes of the partygoers as word of her own engagement had spread like kudzu. An apt metaphor when she considered how tight and constricted her throat felt since she said yes. Elizabeth came to sit beside her, silent and thoughtful.
“Are you all right, Lizzie? Who was that man you were dancing with?”
> The furrow between Elizabeth’s eyes deepened as she stared sullenly at nothing. “It’s only Richard,” she said absently. “Have you seen Mr. Darcy?”
“No, I haven’t. How do you know that man?” Charlotte’s curiosity warred with her hurt feelings. She’s never kept anything from me, Charlotte thought. Except for—
Charlotte gasped. “Lizzie, is he the one who—”
“I’m afraid so, Charlotte. And as it turns out, he is also Mr. Darcy’s cousin.”
Charlotte’s jaw dropped. She couldn’t have been more stunned. Poor Lizzie!
A man in a white jacket approached them. Both girls looked up with curious interest. He looked at Charlotte first. “Miss Bennet?” Charlotte pointed to Elizabeth.
The waiter smiled, embarrassed, and directed his attention to Elizabeth. “Miss, Mr. Darcy was wondering whether you had a moment to speak to him. He’s in Mr. Bingley’s study.”
She managed to thank him and stood to leave. Charlotte took her hand.
“Lizzie, what is happening?”
Elizabeth shook her head, looking dazed. “I’ll let you know when I know, Charlotte.”
***
Darcy wasted no time in sneaking away, hiding himself away in the refuge of Bingley’s dim study. The sounds from the party drifted into the room, irritating him. He pinched the bridge of his nose as he recalled the conversation he had with Richard only hours ago. So what happens now? he had asked.
“It should be her choice, either way,” Richard said. “I won’t force it.”
“But I don’t suppose you’d come out and say you wouldn’t welcome it?”
Richard maintained his thoughtful silence, which was answer enough. Darcy had never felt so conflicted in all his life. For the past twenty-four hours, he had been a stew of guilt, hope, anger, and love. Mostly, he was exhausted in his body and heart.
More and more, he recalled the fight he had with Elizabeth the night he kissed her. She had seen something in him he had been blind to his whole life. You never earn it, she spat at him. It was a hard truth to acknowledge.