In the Arms of Mr. Darcy

by Sharon Lathan

  My dearest Richard,

  How many days and weeks have I contemplated what I would say to you if I was so blessed as to be given the chance! Oh God Richard, I pray you still believe in my love for you! Please, I beg you, do not toss this away as you probably should. I am so afraid that you will do just that and not read what I have to say. I have much to explain, but fear I have no time. As it is, I do not know if my fortunes will prevail long enough for me to finish this letter. I must be hasty.

  I need your help, dear one. I am at my father’s house in Hampshire, where we have been since my foolish departure from you in September, under lock and heavy guard. My father and my uncle, evil men I now perceive, held me captive, using my children as blackmail to force me to agree to marry Wellson. Never would I have done it! Never! But my sweet Oliver has been so ill and treatment was declined him ere I relented. I know it must sound implausible, like a badly written play, but it is true. I have prayed incessantly for the slightest glimmer of hope, seeking any crack in the vigilance so I could escape and end the sham. It came finally in the news of that horrid man’s death! Please forgive me, dear Richard, for possessing no mercy, but I can only exalt in the salvation of his demise. The method matters naught to me, nor do I care about the scandal. I am in a state of utter bliss! Father is furious, somehow in his wicked dementia blaming me. He has gone insane, I am certain of it, and I am extremely fearful. Yet the ensuing chaos has given me an opening. At least I hope.

  They are not watching me as closely, so I think I can slip this letter into the outgoing mail. I do not dare trying to escape and I refuse to leave my children in the midst of this madness. Please help me, Richard. Help us. I am not asking for your forgiveness, as I do not deserve it for causing you pain. My only prayer is that your compassion, which you possess in abundance, will draw you to me. There is no one else I can trust. Yours, always, Simone

  Richard read the letter through twice in rapid succession. His weariness abruptly faded with the instantaneous rise of his wrath and fear. He noted the date as written on the day of Wellson’s murder. Four days ago. For four days she was apparently unable to hide the letter to be sent. For four days she and the children were living in a madhouse suffering God only knew what. It was more than he could bear. But, with the conditioned response of the born military man, he wasted no time on fear or anger.

  The first order of business was to enlist aid. No hesitation there, Richard riding fast to the house of his best friend from their Academy days and fellow soldier during numerous campaigns, Colonel Roland Artois. Colonel Artois leaned negligently against the doorframe, casually eating a thickly crusted rye roll, while Richard gave a brief, crisp explanation. Then he grinned, brushed the crumbs off his fingers with a slap, and said, “Sounds like fun. Rescuing a damsel in distress and vexing a Lord. My wife will think me so romantic. We have to include Warren or he will never forgive you.”

  “My thought exactly. You get him and meet me at the Darcy townhouse.” And with nothing further but precise nods, they parted.

  If Mr. Travers was taken aback by Colonel Fitzwilliam’s curt attitude he did not show it. Fortunately, Mr. Darcy was at home, if in a meeting with his solicitor and shipping partners, but it never crossed the butler’s mind to refuse Mr. Darcy’s cousin entrance or immediate access to his Master. Darcy strode out of his library office, meeting Richard in the middle of the foyer and without preamble asked, “What has happened?”

  “I have no time to explain. I need your carriage and driver, now.”

  Darcy nodded. “Done.” He gestured to Mr. Travers, who waited a distance away, giving the command, and turned back to Richard. “Anything else?”

  “My father’s physician, Dr. Angless. Can you send word to him to be on the alert? I may need him, I am not sure, but he is one of the best in London.”

  “I will take care of it personally and have him waiting here. You are going after her.”

  It wasn’t a question and Richard was not at all surprised that Darcy would piece it together. “Yes. She is in Hampshire being held captive. I know,” he said, seeing Darcy’s raised brow, “it sounds melodramatic and medieval, but she would not lie to me.” He said it with conviction, suddenly realizing how true the words were. The clarity in thought was a heady rush, leaving him momentarily breathless at the wonder of how he could ever have doubted her. The guilt at not fighting harder, forcing the truth somehow, threatened to overwhelm him. But just as rapidly he pushed it aside, regaining control, as he needed to do to deal with the present crisis.

  The clomping of horses’ hooves interrupted further explanation. Richard glanced out the open door to see Artois and Warren in the street. To Darcy he gave instructions to send the driver to the estate in Hampshire as hastily as possible, leaving with a faint smile of thanks.

  The three men pushed their horses hard. Fortunately, these were battle-trained mounts prepared for much rougher terrain than the well-maintained roads near London, so the distance was traversed swiftly with the animals breaking out in a minimal sweat. The sprawling estate and ancestral home of the Earl of Wrexham was surrounded by a high iron fence with the gate chained and padlocked. The last time Richard had approached these gates he was met by two stern-faced, armed groundsmen, one of whom had returned with a rebuffing message from Lady Fotherby as well as one from Lord Wrexham with the Earl’s official seal ordering him to vacate the premises or face the consequences. This time only one of the groundsmen was on guard, the frightened, wild look in his eyes escalating upon spying the three mounted men in uniforms plastered with medals and officer insignias. He shook his head when the three halted less than a yard from the bars, attempting to speak and glare, but he never had the chance to muster his authority because Richard calmly drew his pistol and with one well-aimed blast he shattered the lock. The chains fell in a metallic clatter to the ground, Colonel Artois spurring his horse forward and kicking the gates open. They rode through in a united front, none of them glancing at the stunned guard.

  The drive was circular and short, the house seen from the gates, so there was no doubt that the shot would have been heard. But the soldiers were quick. They flew off their horses before the animals were fully stopped, swords drawn to meet the three footmen descending the entryway steps. Bloodshed was avoided, thankfully, as the servants were no match for the soldiers and they knew it. The orders to prohibit intruders were obliterated the second they laid eyes on the gleaming metal pointed their direction!

  Richard warily entered the foyer, eyes keen and reflexes on alert. Warren and Artois followed in a flank position, equally vigilant. Strangely, the initial impression was of echoing emptiness. The footmen had backed away, silently watching from a safe distance. A couple of other servants were noted, frozen with shock and wide-eyed stares. No one spoke or made a single move. The seconds stretched, the warriors rapidly scanning the premises to gain their bearings. Just as Richard turned to signal Warren to remain posted on guard while he and Artois headed upstairs where he assumed Simone and the children would be, an angry voice pierced the air.

  “You will do as I say, you frigid, ungrateful harpy! Because of your hatefulness and obstinacy you weren’t married last month. None of this would have happened if you were more accommodating!”

  Richard whirled to the right, the voice he recognized as Lord Wrexham’s reverberating down the long corridor running toward the back of the manor. He sprinted, sword clutched in a white knuckled hand, and unable to hear the murmured response. But the next words left no doubt who he was berating, not that Richard was questioning.

  “He wanted you, would have bedded you from the beginning and been content. But, no, not Miss High and Proper! You’ll whore for your nobody lover, a soldier with nothing, but not for a nobleman willing to marry you! You, a used slut with that loathsome invalid you call your son!”

  “No!”

  A murderous Richard burst through the half open door, his pace not slowing as he took in the scene. Lord Wrexham was pacing, his a
rms gesticulating crazily as he continued to rant and swear, impervious to Simone’s shouted negation and the fact that she was fast approaching his back with a huge porcelain vase raised over her head. Neither of them noted the noisy entrance of three sword-wielding gentlemen, both too intent upon their individual fury.

  “Simone!” Richard shouted.

  But it was too late. She started slightly but it was only enough to switch the point of impact from square upon the back of her father’s head, as she intended, to his left shoulder. The vase shattered, the sound loud but not drowning the sickening crunch of broken bone. Lord Wrexham yelled in pain and staggered, blood rapidly soaking his shirtsleeve, yet he somehow managed to pivot toward Simone with eyes savagely blazing and right fist raised.

  Richard launched forward, leaping over the low table in between, and bowled bodily into the earl. They crashed into the wall and his sword flew out of his hand. He compensated quickly, his fist a blur as it swung upward and made contact with the earl’s left temple, the stricken man’s eyes glazing and rolling back into his head moments before he bonelessly toppled to the floor.

  Richard knelt, checking his pulse to assure he was alive and then peeling back an eyelid to assure he was deeply unconscious. Satisfied on both counts, Richard then turned to Simone.

  She stood taut and straight, her eyes glittering with residual anger and gradually dawning happiness. Her cheeks were flushed, hair loose and disheveled, chest heaving with ragged inhalations, and the only thought that went through Richard’s mind was that she looked absolutely ravishing!

  “You came,” she said simply.

  “I came,” he responded.

  And then the stasis broke. They crossed the short space between, arms embracing fiercely and mouths crushing together in a passionate kiss.

  Artois nudged Warren, both men smirking as they backed out of the room.

  “He always has all the fun,” Warren grumbled good-naturedly.

  “True. But no one knows the truth but us three, so the tale can be spun to our advantage. At least our wives can think we are the heroes and that should earn us more than a kiss.”

  ***

  The marriage of Colonel Richard Fitzwilliam and Lady Simone Fotherby took place three weeks after Christmas in the small chapel attached to the Fotherby estate in Buckinghamshire. It was a humble ceremony and reception with the bride wearing an unpretentious pale yellow gown that accented her stunningly youthful blonde coloring and glowing mien. She walked down the aisle preceded by her two sons tossing rose petals and escorted proudly by her stepson, Lord Oliver Fotherby, with eyes only on her earnestly waiting groom. The Colonel wore his most elaborate dress uniform with the wealth of earned medals adorning his chest polished until gleaming, wool tailored to perfection for his stocky physique, and a countenance beaming with transcendent joy.

  The intimate gathering of friends and family were unified in their happiness for the couple. How could anyone feel otherwise when the two were so forthright in their giddy elation? The sacred vows were exchanged before the altar with due solemnity only broken for a second when Richard glanced toward Darcy, who winked and grinned. Many in the audience knew of the tortuous road these two had traversed to reach this place as the scandals surrounding Lord Wellson’s murder and the formal severing with her father, Lord Wrexham, were now common knowledge. But only a handful knew the full extent of the trauma, and thus rejoiced in the union finally coming to fruition.

  Congratulations and blessings were abundant. Darcy was uncharacteristically effusive in his felicitations, saving the best of his teases for after the honeymoon. Lizzy did not hesitate in kissing her cousin smartly on the cheek and hugging his new bride. Dr. George Darcy was as effusive as his nephew and did not reserve his teasing. Raul and Anne Penaflor were genuine in their well wishes while Lady Catherine de Bourgh nodded politely. Lord Matlock was stately, as was Lady Matlock, but the controlled tears in their eyes spoke volumes. Jonathan clapped his brother on the back and offered a lusty “well done” while Priscilla tried not to express her chagrin over the younger brother marrying a woman of higher rank. Lord Montgomery accompanied his wife to her brother’s nuptials, although he looked positively bored stiff with the procedure, but Lady Annabella Montgomery was surprisingly moved by her brother’s happiness and bestowed a heartfelt kiss and embrace.

  Georgiana extended sincere congratulations and wishes for eternal happiness to the couple. Simone embraced her young cousin in true joy and understanding of the circumstances, Richard having divulged his tumultuous emotions during their separation. The groom, however, avoided Georgiana’s eyes. His remorse and discomfort were evident, feelings that were ridiculous as Simone and Georgiana genuinely liked each other and neither woman wished for anything but his happiness. It was a strained situation that pained all three of them.

  A number of Richard’s friends and military associates were present, each delighted to be a part of witnessing the long-time bachelor finally succumb. The Vernors, Sitwells, Hugheses, and Bingleys were in attendance, as were a select group of Lady Fotherby’s lifelong friends and her three sisters. Considering the prominence of the bride it was a modest assembly, many in Society shocked and angered to be denied an invitation; but Simone was unfazed. She readily embraced life as wife to an ordinary gentleman, who in her eyes was extraordinary in every possible way.

  “So, Cousin, how is matrimony suiting you thus far?”

  “I have been married for exactly one hour, Darcy, so aside from wishing desperately that I was alone with my bride, I do not think I can give an explicit accounting of the matrimonial state. Ask me again in a month or so.”

  “Indeed I will. If you are then ready to quit your bedchamber for an evening with me.”

  “Remember that I am marrying a woman with children so will undoubtedly not have as much time to dally in my conjugal bed as you probably did.”

  He grinned at his cousin, Darcy grinning in return.

  “Young Lord Fotherby appears healthy at the moment.”

  “He was slow to recover from the poor medical management administered by Wrexham’s quack,” Richard said with bitterness. “Simone lost too many hours of sleep worrying over him, another reason her father deserves to be shot for what he did.”

  Unfortunately, the most Lord Wrexham would suffer as a result of his crime was a left arm that pained him and had limited mobility. It was monumentally unfair, but Simone had no legal recourse, as there was no proof that she was detained against her will unless she chose to launch an extended investigation. Since this would likely be a fruitless effort in light of her father’s wealth and influence, it was not worth further scandal that might harm her children. Harry and Hugh were young enough to be innocently unaware of the drama. Oliver’s sequelae was serious, his condition critically worsened due to nearly two months of mistreatment. But in the end, that too may have been an odd blessing as Dr. Angless collaborated with the Fotherby family physician, as well as Dr. Darcy putting his superior intellect and unique experience to the mix, and a new plan was devised for the mysterious ailment. Oliver was responding favorably, a great deal of his gaiety and heartiness undoubtedly the result of observing the only mother he had ever known glowing with happiness.

  “You a father,” Darcy teased, noting the fond smile on Richard’s face as he watched Hugh, Harry, and Oliver laughing as they exhaled on a cold window and drew pictures in the vapor. “Who would have thought it?”

  “Not I,” Richard said with a laugh. “Far too much responsibility for me. Simone must be crazy.”

  “Maybe,” Darcy agreed with a grin. “Do you think you will miss it?” He nodded toward the mass of medals adorning Richard’s chest.

  “At times I am sure I will. It is hard to fathom no longer being a part of what has been essentially my family and identification for nearly as long as I can remember, but I am prepared to enter a new phase of life and identity as husband, father, and estate manager. I gave the matter intense contemplation, as you know,
and it is for the best. I cannot be the husband she deserves if I am encumbered with my professional duties. Nor do I want to run the risk of another war or being deployed. I will not be parted from her, Darcy, not ever again.”

  Darcy nodded. “I understand completely, my friend.”

  They paused for a moment to gaze upon their wives where they sat surrounded by children and ladies.

  “Have you told Elizabeth of your plans to take her on tour through Europe?”

  “I have hinted. I am keeping it tentative at the moment until I finalize some business matters and research travel options. I have never traveled abroad with a family, so concessions must be made. You shall see in due course, Cousin. Life is no longer easy, but well worth the discomfort, I assure you.” Richard smiled, a bit foolishly, and Darcy chuckled. “The plans are taking shape and if all is well, then I shall reveal it as a birthday present. By the way, do you think you and Mrs. Fitzwilliam will be able to visit Pemberley for the Summer Festival? We are planning a smaller affair for May this year. I thought I better extend the invitation now, since I will likely not see much of you in the subsequent months.”

  “Very funny. If you keep this up I am tempted to avoid you purposely for the sake of my sanity! As for the Festival, we will be there… if you think it wise.”

  Darcy glanced at Richard’s suddenly clouded face, noting that his gaze had strayed from divine wife to lovely Georgiana where she stood across the room in animated conversation with Kitty Bennet and a number of others.

  “Richard, you need to let your guilt go. How many times must we tell you that Georgiana is perfectly fine? Only you persist in this train of thought. She is young and resilient, much as you are. Her only pain is in your remorse and embarrassment and avoidance of her. She loves you too much to want you to suffer. You need to talk to her, and although this is perhaps not the best venue, you should not embark on your honeymoon with any residual baggage.”