“Well, if I did not have a hearty appetite this morning, I should have been gone by now,” a disappointed Fitzwilliam remarked, when Kitty finally sat down to breakfast a full half hour later.
“I am sorry, but it could not be put off. Are you enjoying your rolls?”
“Hard as rocks! I could barely manage to swallow the six which happened upon my plate. But,” glancing at Mrs. Maricle, he added, “You know what I always say, ‘Willful waste makes woeful want.” So I will take the remaining ones with me. I heard of a Frenchman who made a jacket out of cork to use in emergencies if his ship sank. I can always use these cement rolls to hold me up if the same happens to me.”
“A few years ago,” added Darcy, “I had the pleasure of meeting Mr. James Parker, who developed Roman cement. It forms a very strong and heavy building material. It would not hold you up Fitzwilliam. On the contrary, you would sink like a rock.”
“Details, details, Darcy! I am sure they will be of some use to me on my journey. I may use them as a weapon. If you would be so kind to wrap them up for me, my dear Mrs. Maricle, I will take them off your hands.”
The older woman smiled and replied, “I happen to have a fresh pan in the kitchen, Colonel. I will get them wrapped up for you to take a dozen with you. May you have a safe journey, sir.”
“Thank you, that is certainly my hope as well. Speaking of which, I must be going soon.”
“So soon?” asked Elizabeth. “Can we not tempt you to stay another day?”
“I appreciate the kind offer, but I am sorry to say I cannot accept. While we were having our breakfast, your manservant was packing my things. I must be off within the half hour. The sooner the better, for I have a long ride ahead of me.”
“Let us say our goodbyes then, and let you be on your way, Cousin.”
“Please excuse me again. I will be back as quickly as possible,” Kitty said as she quickly left the room.
Fitzwilliam was confused and disappointed that she kept running off when he was about to leave. It did not seem to him to be the actions of someone about to say goodbye to one she cared about. He wished he understood what was going on in her mind right now. He turned his attention to the children, gave Mrs. Maricle a kiss on the cheek in return for the package she gave him, and was saying parting words to Darcy and Elizabeth when Kitty came practically running down the stairs.
“Kitty!” scolded her sister.
“I am sorry for running, Lizzy. I know it is not lady-like, but I was in a hurry to see the colonel off.” She turned to Fitzwilliam and held out a piece of parchment to him. “I have a going away gift for you, so you might remember us when you find yourself all alone.”
“It is lovely!” It was a sketch of herself with Wendy and Lawrence.
“Miss Piper, the children’s governess, is known to have talent as an artist, you know. I requested that she do a sketch this morning. I had to sit for her before I had my breakfast, but thankfully the kind lady was able to go by previous works she had done of the children.”
“So that is what you were up to. It is remarkable that she captured your likeness in so short a time. Look here, Elizabeth. Is it not enchanting?” he said as he handed her the drawing.
“It is wonderful!” she replied as she and Darcy poured over the details of their children’s beautiful faces.
While they were distracted, Fitzwilliam took Kitty’s hand in his and kissed it warmly. “What a thoughtful gift. I will treasure it always.”
“Will you write to me?” she asked quietly.
“I will try my best,” he replied.”
After he had mounted his steed, he said to his cousin, “I will see you when I get back.”
Darcy gave a small, forced smile. He was the picture of worry. Richard wanted to tell him that he would be alright and that his upcoming mission was the same as all the previous missions given to him, but he stopped himself. He knew that it would only worry Darcy even more.
“Say, Darcy, can you keep my horse safe whilst I am gone?” he asked Darcy. Kitty looked up.
“You do not have a horse here or on our estate, Richard.” Darcy replied, obviously lost in his cousin’s peculiar request. Richard smiled and looked directly at Kitty.
“Oh, yes, I do have one.”
After they watched him ride away, Kitty spent the remainder of the morning alone in her room. She contemplated how her life had changed in such a short time. She thought she would want to shout it from the rooftop for the entire world to hear. But something held her back and made her want to keep their attachment just between the two of them, at least for a while. This felt different from her past romances. She had known Fitzwilliam for many years now and cared about him as a friend before she ever considered him as anything else. She did not have to wonder if he was a man she could respect. She already knew he was. They would be there for each other and make a life together. She suddenly felt her childhood had truly ended and the woman who loved Richard Fitzwilliam had emerged. And it was wonderful.
And yet … there was something about the way he had said he would do his best to return safely that worried her. She thought back to the conversation between Fitzwilliam and Darcy. Fitzwilliam was going on a dangerous assignment. She was suddenly aware of what it meant to worry about someone.
He had also said he would do his best to write to her. She would cherish those letters.
Chapter Twelve
The following day, Fitzwilliam was boarding the ship, and the nineteen men set off across the channel to France. Fitzwilliam found himself with some of the finest company around, and a sense of relaxation was in the air. The men sat and talked together, relating stories of their other lives to one another and laughing heartily at the minute concerns of those whom they sought to deceive.
Fitzwilliam compared this activity to the behavior of the soldiers with whom he had served. He recalled that the best men nearly always fell into two parties: men who sat solemn and focused on the training or mission ahead, and men who gathered together to enjoy the company, joking and generally having the time of their lives. There was, of course, a third party in the military, comprised of tense men who had a slight look of fear and a terrible sense of foreboding about them. Men who clutched their chests and allowed their eyes to dart around the room, wondering what might become of them, and sadly these men never seemed to last in the service. In the best cases, they were relegated to other duties, or resigned from the forces altogether; in the worst cases, well, those men knew the cost more evidently than any other man. Fitzwilliam kept those men always in the back of his mind as he joined in, sharing in the jokes and laughs of his associates, but he also had to remind himself of those solemn men who knew well the gravity of what they had to undertake.
After allowing himself to socialize for a while, Fitzwilliam peeled himself away from the other men to remember the importance of his situation, and his mind inevitably drifted to his beloved Kitty. When he had left Pemberley he had made a detour to Longbourn. He apologized about his unannounced visit, to which Mr. Bennet replied that Fitzwilliam’s concern was nonsense.
“How are you, Colonel?” he smiled.
“I do well these days, sir,” Fitzwilliam replied with the proper reverence, “though it pains me that I must leave for several weeks on business matters which call me away.”
“A shame, to be sure,” replied her father, “but men must do what is to be done.”
“Mine is to be a short visit,” he explained, “I must be in London by day’s end.”
He had then opened his heart to Kitty’s father and had been given his blessing. The final requirement was simply to finalize his plans and spring the question upon her. He had every reason to believe it was to be mere months until the formality of their engagement would be at hand. Knowing he would not get the opportunity to ask the lady herself for some time, he requested that Mr. Bennet simply say he had stopped while passing through the neighborhood. The gentleman readily obliged.
After removing himself from the comfor
t of his traveling companions, Fitzwilliam pulled a folded parchment from his breast pocket, which held the sketched image of her face. Kitty had insisted that Fitzwilliam hold on to it as something to keep him company on long nights when he was alone. The great weight that Bayard had given this mission made Fitzwilliam thankful to bring his beloved Kitty along with him, hidden safely in his pocket. The image was a great work and a great comfort to him. It easily captured the slope of her neck, her lovely brown hair framing her beautiful blue eyes, and something behind her eyes –- a kind and loving heart – which Fitzwilliam knew would serve her well throughout her life.
He beheld her image for quite some time while he rolled the details of the plot around in his head. He knew the broad strokes of the endeavor, but the concern that he settled on was in how to gain access to the family. He knew that he could make their locations within a day or two. There wasn’t a man, woman, or child held in French custody that was out of touch. The prisons were getting filled every day, and everyone locked inside had someone on the outside waiting. Some of them were waiting, hoping and praying for freedom; the rest, just waiting for a spectacle to behold.
A shout from a man across the boat shook Fitzwilliam from his pondering, and he looked up to see the French skyline quickly encroaching on the boat. It was time to gather the things that he needed and relieve himself of his partners.
Chapter Thirteen
Fitzwilliam entered Paris through his usual route and found he was walking down a cobbled path towards the city center where the executions were at this moment being held. He noted briefly how empty the streets seemed to be until he noticed the large throbbing crowd ahead of him, which made him halt his progress. This was not a scene that was altogether new to him, but it was not a scene that he thought he would ever get used to. Or so he hoped.
He stopped well before he was forced to behold the spectacle of Madame Guillotine, but he remembered well the first time that he had innocently and ignorantly run forward to see what commotion was to be held. His remembered thinking that first time that some member of royalty must be giving a speech, perhaps the head of state himself, to draw such a crowd. It was not until he forced his way halfway through the crowd that he realized the horror. The gleaming blade, the hideous wooden track erected for the sole purpose of slaughter, and the terrified victims who were to come.
He watched just one, and that image had been etched into his brain as result, but he was forced to listen to the event time and time again as he closed his eyes and tried to force his way back out of the crowd. He remembered the rhythm of the sounds well, and on this journey, as he stopped halfway down the path, he could hear the distant rumble and recall the order of sounds once again.
Initially, there was silence, as a new poor soul was brought forward. The drums would begin rolling. The growing roar from the crowd for a few moments, then, silences. The sound of the sharp blade striking down with furious force was followed by a wild and sickening cheer from the masses gathered about. Repeat.
On that day, he recalled hearing the chorus –- that order of sounds, never changing –-at least twenty times before he gave up counting. He waited up the path, looking at a row of homes with a tavern at one end, several traders and businessmen had set up shops on the road as well, but it was easy to decipher that everything at this moment was closed. All men who were any men were witnessing the execution, and so Fitzwilliam waited, unwilling to be a spectator to such bloodlust.
He found himself a seat on a stoop far enough away from the crowd to only hear the roar of delight, which signaled the demise of one more victim. He sat for over an hour, counting the cheers even though he tried to force himself not to. His final count came to thirty-two. The final roar of the crowd was sustained and louder than the others, like a dinner bell to signal the entire town that the festivities had ended for the evening.
Fitzwilliam took this as his cue, and he rushed forward, hiding down a back alley until the hideous crowd began to pass. At this point, he emerged from the alley and joined the group, blending in as though he had always been with them. The spectators all talked loudly and excitedly, sharing their delight at a particular man who really had deserved what had just been witnessed. As the crowd made its way down the street, Fitzwilliam’s voice slowly filtered into the conversation. Not sharing particular stories or joining in, he was simply repeating the family name, more loudly with every refrain, to inject it into the conversation.
“Theriot,” he would say and wait for a brash Frenchman to run with the idea. He said again, Theriot, Theriot!
Theriot!
And a man near him took the bait. “The Theriot family, scheduled in three days’ time!”
Another man yelled, “Filthy protesters!”
A woman shouted, “The disgrace!”
The shouting grew louder, and Fitzwilliam had to yell over the top of the noise, “Shall we pay their prison a visit?” The group laughed, to Fitzwilliam’s surprise.
“Some prison,” scoffed a woman.
“Prisoners in their own home? Too good for that lot!” shouted a man.
In a surprising turn of events, it seemed that locating the Theriot family had been even easier than anticipated. The story unfolded itself as the group wandered through the streets, still yelling and cheering about what they had seen.
It turned out that as quickly as the revolutionaries were executing traitors, they were finding them and jailing them even more quickly. The conclusion had come quite easily –- detain some of the traitors in their own homes. This had been the fate of the Theriot family, as Fitzwilliam learned.
Eventually the mob started to thin, as they walked past each member’s relative home, street, or place of drink, but still a crowd large enough to lose himself in led Fitzwilliam directly to the home of Pierre Theriot and his family. Their conversation had led to someone’s brilliant conclusion - helped along by Fitzwilliam - that the Theriots deserved a little after hours visit to disrupt their comfortable prison. The mob walked right up to the gates where two uniformed men forced them to stop.
“No entry, of course,” said one.
“You will see them soon enough,” said the other, with a giant French smirk on his face and in his voice.
The mob began to shout and yell in a feverish fashion. Largely incoherent drivel laced with what Fitzwilliam could somewhat make out as slurs. He stayed with the mob as long as they were allowed to linger, letting out a wordless yell to stay in character every so often when one of the mob caught him in the eye, but in the end, saying nothing. Eventually, the crowd was forced home, and Fitzwilliam made his way to the inn where he had been staying. He inquired of the innkeeper if there were any messages for him, and he found that Bayard had left the standard, cryptic correspondence, calling out a time and place of meeting without giving the men away.
Bayard, otherwise known as the elusive Scarlet Pimpernel, was in town, and they were to meet the following evening to finalize the plans for escape. This gave Fitzwilliam only a day to gain access to the mansion Theriot and inform them of their impending rescue, discover the general security around the house, and formulate an escape plan.
He slept uneasily that night, but his restlessness did give him time to plan his entrance. He would go in the black visage of a coffin maker, a common disguise which the Scarlet Pimpernel had suggested that all men come so equipped, given their prevalence in the city of Paris. He could use the disguise as a smokescreen, the hat allowing for a more convincing disguise, and easily blend in as one of many in the city.
He rose the following day, donned the black robes and hat of a local undertaker, and walked the path that he walked the previous night.
He approached the gates with a solemn look on his face, he lowered his eyes, and he even approached saying a short greeting for good fortune under his breath. All these things, Fitzwilliam believed, gave him the convincing image of a greedy undertaker, come to prepare for the next victims. He was halted at the entrance, and the guard said as h
e had the previous night, “No entry.”
Fitzwilliam met his gaze with the bored and knowing smile of a man whose business would not be delayed. The two men, seemingly convinced, began to move towards the gate, but the larger man halted himself and repeated, for a third time in two days, “No entry.”
“Indeed,” added one of the other guards, starting to walk back towards Fitzwilliam. “Indeed, we do be needing some identification.” Looking at Fitzwilliam with scrutiny, he added, “You might just be with that Scarlet Pimpernel. Does his beard look like a fake to you, Thomas?”
“There be only one way to find out, Noe’,” the other man answered. He grabbed Fitzwilliam’s arm and pulled on his whiskers.
“Ow! Stop that you fiend!” cried Fitzwilliam indignantly, using his free hand to swing at the guard. “You think me to be an aristocrat, do you? Maybe you’d like to settle this elsewhere!”
Noe’ pulled Fitzwilliam, still hitting the guard named Thomas, away. “Oh, calm down you. Now, perhaps if I could see some identification? We can’t be too careful with this lot. They be ripe for an escape attempt.
“I highly doubt that anyone would come to their aid,” Fitzwilliam said disgustedly. “But, if you must…” Fitzwilliam reached into his breast pocket for identifying documents he knew he would not find. All he found, in fact, was a folded up parchment, one which retained the image of the fair Kitty and the Darcy children. Searching his mind, he began to concoct a new story of woe and pain. Perhaps the sketch could be one of his poor wife, who had died because of the greed of the aristocracy? And his children, now motherless, were forced to stay with relatives while he worked for the Revolution? He felt that pleading more empathy might be the only way through the gates.
Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy and The Scarlet Pimpernel Page 6