Darcy and Fitzwilliam: A Tale of a Gentleman and an Officer

by Karen Wasylowski

  It has to be.

  ***

  For the first time in his life, he looked a mess. When he walked into her dressing room, he was barefoot, his hair wild, his eyes red-rimmed from exhaustion, his coat off, and his shirt pulled out from his pants, the tails hanging down from his waist. Their eyes met.

  “May I?” he asked quietly. She had been standing before the immense French doors overlooking the garden, staring unseeing across the moonlit expanse, a brush in her hand. She turned to look at him, tears streaming down her cheeks, and she nodded, offering him the brush.

  “Thank you,” she whispered. “I find it hard to hit upon a comfortable position when I sit on that antique vanity chair, and I am so very tired tonight.” He tenderly took the brush from her hand and began to glide it through her soft, shiny hair, then set down the brush to loosely braid it for her. Quiet surrounded them.

  “Shall I rub your back?” His hands lay warm and gentle at her waist.

  She nodded, and when she looked up, she saw him watching her in the dark reflection of the window. He looks so sad and tired, and her heart broke for him. She placed her hands upon his.

  “Forgive me, Lizzy,” was all he could manage to say as he pressed his forehead atop her head. She turned quickly and reached up, struggling onto her tiptoes to wrap her arms around his neck. They stood like that for a time, holding each other, then softly kissed.

  He led her over to the bed, helping her up the two steps and onto her side to rest. Sitting next to her, he began to massage her back and hip through her night robe, a sad, embarrassed look upon his face.

  Finally, he spoke. “I’ll apologize to Fitzwilliam in the morning. I don’t know what came over me; I think I may be losing my mind. I saw the two of you holding hands and…”

  She turned on her back and placed a finger to his lips. “Hush! It is all right, William. I was crying, and Richard heard me, so he asked if he could enter. He was almost equally concerned, you see. I welcomed his company because it was frightening waiting alone for you with that storm blowing.”

  Darcy lay down beside her and gathered her into his arms, pulling a coverlet over them. “I don’t think he sleeps well. Catherine is concerned and wants me to speak with him; it seems that some nights he just roams through the halls. I imagine he was lonely as well.”

  “He is such a kind man, William. Truthfully, if you had come home an hour before, you would have seen a hysterical banshee instead of a wife.”

  He took her palm from his face and kissed her soft hand.

  “You’re tired, William, and you worry much too much. Let’s go to sleep. This will all be over in a few months.”

  He grunted loudly. “I’ll collapse well before then,” he murmured in her ear.

  ***

  The following morning, he found Fitzwilliam at breakfast early, as he knew he would. Fitzwilliam had to be off and on the roads to make London late the following day.

  “Morning, Cousin. And how are we feeling today?” Fitzwilliam called out when he saw Darcy approach the breakfast room.

  “We feel like a complete ass, thank you very much, and how do you feel, Cousin?” Grabbing a cup of coffee, he sat down across from Fitzwilliam, stretching his long legs before him.

  “Very well, actually. Finally slept like a baby.” He was eating three eggs, ham, and bacon. He also had a huge slice of buttered, freshly baked bread, which he was carefully stuffing into his mouth. “God, you are so predictable.” He let out a hoot of laughter. “I knew you’d feel absolutely miserable this morning. Made the whole thing completely worthwhile.”

  “You truly are a black-hearted bastard.” Darcy roughly rubbed his sleepy eyes and then destroyed the achingly perfect coif his valet had given him by rubbing his hands through it. Resting his cheek on a fist, he gazed in amazement at the quantity of food his cousin could consume.

  Fitzwilliam stopped in midbite. “What?” he groused defensively then swallowed. “An army moves on its stomach.”

  “Well, it better not be going far. You’re going to be puking before the first road station.” He motioned with his hands for Fitzwilliam to pass food to him.

  Fitzwilliam handed him an empty plate, sliding an egg onto it and a huge slice of ham. He then reached for the scones for both of them.

  “I’m going to try to get an extended leave the month Lizzy’s due to deliver. Let me know if you need me for anything before then.” Fitzwilliam leaned back in his chair and stretched, finishing up his morning coffee.

  Darcy nodded. “Thank you, by the way, for staying with her last night. At least you kept her calm. I, however, managed nearly to give her apoplexy.” He grabbed several pieces of toast.

  “I know you, brat, and I know what is eating at you. There is no evidence for it. Many women never miscarry; some miscarry and then go on to have a perfectly normal delivery. Your mother had a history of troubled pregnancies. Her death was unfortunate but not something that will happen to Lizzy. You are worrying unnecessarily and driving everyone insane.”

  “Then why are you taking leave at the time she’s due? Hmm?” It appeared that Darcy’s appetite was returning with a vengeance as he reached for Fitzwilliam’s nearly empty plate to bring it across and add any remnants onto his own. He grabbed for more toast and pastries.

  “That’s entirely different,” Richard said. “That’s me. I am a military genius, or hadn’t you heard? Battle-ready whenever needed.”

  “You’re an idiot, and you want to be there to torture me when the child is born,” replied Darcy, finishing up the ham and scones.

  “That’s true, too.” Fitzwilliam nodded deeply and in complete agreement. “Where do you go from here?” Fitzwilliam had poured himself one more helping of coffee and was ready to push away from the table.

  “We go directly to London; I want Elizabeth to be as near to the best medical minds as possible. I have left nothing to chance, believe me. Her physician is world renowned and has assured me he will be in residence, near Pemberley House, the entire final month. Furthermore, he guarantees that the midwife he has secured is the very best. Also, I have contracted with no less than three other physicians and apprised them of the situation. They have all agreed, for a not-so-slight remuneration, to remain in town that last month of her pregnancy. It is all costing a small fortune, but the peace of mind is priceless.” He stared unseeing out the window, not bothering to hide his distress from his cousin.

  “Something else is bothering you—out with it.”

  “What if there are twins in there?” Darcy shook his head. “She’s so big, much larger than I had imagined she would be at this point. But mayhap it is because she’s such a tiny thing. I don’t know anymore. The proportions appear all off to me. And her delivery is not until sometime at the end of January.” He sighed heavily. “At any rate, do not forget about Georgiana’s debut and presentation. That will require Elizabeth and me to reside in London from before Christmas and then throughout the entire social season.”

  “I have been trying to forget. Georgiana cannot be ready yet for this. I’m not ready yet for this.”

  “She can, and she is. She and her maid have already arrived in London, and she’s commenced shopping. From what I have heard, she and Elizabeth are planning a major campaign. To them, we go to London for the dressmaker, not for childbirth. It’s a good thing I’ll be there to keep Elizabeth in check, or she’ll be wielding that immense body of hers around every shop in town. As Georgiana’s other guardian, you will be expected to be on hand for the presentation at court and the presentation balls and Almack’s, so save some leave time for then, also. One must never forget Almack’s.”

  Fitzwilliam threw down his napkin and pushed back his chair. “Well, evidently I’ll be using a lot more time this year than I had anticipated. I do have it coming, unfortunately, so that should not be a problem. Surely, though, you will want to present her at court yourself alone?” He looked hopefully at Darcy. “You are, after all, her closest male relative.”


  “Forget it, Richard. We will jointly have that pleasure. As her co-guardian, I would not think of depriving you of this bliss.”

  Fitzwilliam smiled evilly.

  “I’ve just had a delightful thought. Do you realize, Cousin, that if our baby girl is not successful in her first season, if she does not snag a prospective suitor, if she is not married by next year, you will have to go through the whole season again, Almack’s and everything, and without me. I’ll be in Paris with the returning army of occupation.”

  “Black-hearted bastard,” Darcy mumbled to his cousin’s retreating back and finished off the last of the coffee.

  ***

  Leaving Rosings had been harder on Lizzy than she could ever have imagined three weeks before, let alone two years ago.

  Once Darcy and Lizzy had entered the carriage, Darcy called up to his driver, “Henry, take your time going home. I’m bound that we’re going to enjoy this solitude.” He settled himself back into the seat and pulled Lizzy to him, resting her back on his chest for support then, finally beginning to relax, he stretched long legs out to the seat across from them, and they took off toward home.

  They rode for a long time in silence, his cheek resting on top of her head, his arms encircling her and holding her close. “This could go on forever, and I wouldn’t mind,” she whispered sleepily.

  Her back didn’t hurt for once, and her feet weren’t too swollen. She was in heaven. He kissed the top of her head and rested his cheek there again. Both of them closed their eyes to the rest of the world.

  “Oh, William, in all the excitement last night, I forgot to tell you something.” He groaned a little in reply, preferring his drift into unconsciousness to conversation.

  “You will never guess who came to see us the day you escorted Father home.” He barely heard her voice. The carriage was rocking like a cradle, and he was half asleep and half awake. “Caroline Bingley.”

  The name slowly made its way into his brain but elicited no impression for several seconds. Suddenly, his eyes popped open.

  “Who did you say?” He attempted to sound casual.

  “Caroline. Caroline Bingley.” Lizzy giggled at the memory of the beast’s meeting with Lady Catherine. “I imagine she actually wanted to see you but had to settle for Aunt Catherine, Anne, and me.” Darcy’s heart began pounding, his voice trying to remain steady.

  “What did she have to say for herself?” he asked.

  “Nothing too much. At first I was horrified having both Caroline and Aunt Catherine alone in a room with me, but believe me, it wasn’t long before Caroline was being eviscerated by Aunt Catherine.” Lizzy gave a delighted chuckle, any attempt at pretending indifference being long forgotten.

  “I’m sorry to be so gleeful about it, but it was truly a sight to behold, watching someone else being attacked by your aunt. I have the distinct impression either Aunt Catherine is completely dotty or she is the slyest fox in the henhouse.”

  “More than likely it’s a combination of both.” Darcy closed his eyes, trying not to panic. It didn’t sound as if Caroline had said anything to her. He should have just told Lizzy the truth about Netherfield, saving himself from another lie. I can tell her everything later, he reasoned, after the baby is here.

  “She didn’t give any explanation for a visit though?” he asked.

  “No. I truly think that Aunt Catherine had her so confused that she completely forgot what she was about.” Darcy smiled, relieved that Caroline’s deception and his visit to her were still unknown to Lizzy.

  “That’s the first time I heard you call her Aunt Catherine instead of Lady Catherine.” He kissed her head again and rested his chin on it. “I think we are making real progress.”

  “I’m feeling more part of the family every day. After ten or twenty years, I shall be right at home in all this luxury.”

  “Get some sleep, will you? I need the rest.” He pushed his hat down over his eyes and closed them, letting his thoughts ruminate. Why in the world had Caroline come all that way? What could she have up her sleeve? He began drifting deeper and deeper into unconsciousness.

  “By the way”—Lizzy’s voice sounded groggy—“where is my mother’s locket? I should like to be wearing it when I have the baby.”

  His eyes opened with a shock. The locket! Oh, dear merciful God in heaven, he didn’t have the locket. He had left it at Netherfield and never returned.

  “William? Are you sleeping?” He didn’t answer her and remained very still. “I’ll pester you tomorrow,” she murmured and was soon snoring softly. Darcy, however, was not going to sleep any time soon.

  VOLUME TWO

  COLONEL RICHARD

  FITZWILLIAM

  AN OFFICER

  1817

  Here’s forty shillings on the drum,

  For those that volunteer to come,

  With shirts, and clothes, and present pay,

  Then o’er the hills and far away.

  O’er the hills and o’er the main,

  Through Flanders, Portugal, and Spain,

  King George commands and we obey,

  Over the hills and far away.

  Hark! Now the drums beat up again,

  For all true soldier gentlemen,

  Then let us ’list and march I say,

  Over the hills and far away.

  —Traditional soldiers’ song, Peninsular Wars

  Chapter 1

  Fighting a brutal and sudden gust of frigid November wind, Colonel Richard Fitzwilliam was making slow headway in his march across Mayfair, advancing doggedly toward the townhouse of his cousin, Fitzwilliam Darcy. Onlookers not distracted by their freezing extremities saw a tall, broad, and very familiar soldier passing by them. Hunched shoulders beneath a nearly floor-length, battered military greatcoat, muscular legs resembling tree trunks encased in scruffy military knee boots, gloved hands grappling at the cloak’s broken neck closure. This pathetic excuse for an ensemble was topped off by a large, dark bicorn hat that had been pulled low and was plain and battered, absent of fancy feathers or brass.

  Bent against the cold and sleet, he was presently lost in thought, having just left his general’s home. It was November 11, 1817, and Colonel Fitzwilliam was returning from a disturbing morning meeting with Arthur Wellesley, the Duke of Wellington—his mentor, commanding officer, and dear friend.

  “Halloo, Colonel!” someone yelled from a passing coach, a stranger to whom Fitzwilliam automatically raised his arm in response, smiling pleasantly and nodding. Two gentlemen passing by noticed this and boldly approached him, insisting on introducing themselves when they realized who he was. They pressed their cards into his hands and, winking broadly, hinted that they would do right by him if he would merely endorse one of their enterprises, lend his name to one of their products, or if he would allow them to use his likeness in any way. He smiled politely, as he always did, saying he would certainly consider their requests, and then excused himself to move on, pulling his collar up higher and his hat lower, ostensibly against the cold.

  It had been like this for the two years since Wellington’s Anglo-allied army’s magnificent victory at Waterloo, and still the city of London was mad with patriotic fervor, and Richard’s valor having long since elevated him to the lofty status of celebrity. For several years now, the military’s every battle, their wounds, and even in some instances their deaths, had been liberally seasoned with florid prose then served up by the daily news sheets as entertainment. Animated discussions on every corner encouraged opinions to flow as freely as wine, thereby enriching the dreariness of the baker’s and the blacksmith’s lives, alleviating the tedium of the shopkeeper or the farmer.

  It was the Battle of Waterloo that propelled him into this truly legendary status. Stories in the daily papers immediately after his return had revealed his wounding and heroic struggle to survive amidst the onslaught of barbaric French soldiers swooping in for the kill of this high-ranking British officer. That the story, as it now was told—to
ld and retold and told again some eighteen months after the fact—bore little resemblance to the reality of the event… well, that seemed irrelevant to the editors.

  Devotees called out to him from windows, from passing horses and carriages, or as he lounged within the gentlemen’s clubs. It made no sense to him at all. He was the same man who had spent ten years living like an animal in Portuguese and Spanish mud, often grudgingly caught in the reflected glory of being one of Wellesley’s favored officers. Then, shortly after Waterloo and his highly publicized heroics, he returned home to a frenzied reception.

  ***

  He squinted through the sleet to check for carriages prior to his crossing, wondering if the adoring masses would be as impressed were it known that a moment of abysmally poor judgment had him fighting alongside his men that fateful day, that a military blunder on his own part had caused his beloved horse to be shot out from under him. Stupidly caught by a sudden French cavalry charge, he was a very high-ranking officer trapped in the wrong place at the wrong time, then tossed into the bloodlust of battle. It was the reason officers stayed remote, far back from the fighting, a dictum he had failed to follow. “Kill the head and the body will die,” common knowledge in warfare. It was his misjudgment to have lingered so long near the front, and his lovely Domina was brought down, pinning him beneath her and crushing his leg.

  “Hold square! Hold square!” He roared the command to his men as he lay injured on the open field before them. His officers defied that order, a first for them, and had run out to drag him back within their square to safety, completely ignoring his threats of courts martial. He never did follow through on those threats, musing that they had all fought to save each other that day, not for patriotism. Over and over he fired the rifle that had been unceremoniously thrust into his hand, a rifle grabbed from a dead soldier, eventually ending up slashing and butchering blindly with its bayonet. The French soldiers kept coming for him, and too many of his men, his band of brothers, thieves, and drunks as they were, had been injured or killed trying to defend him. If I told the masses that I had to piss into the barrel of the rifle in order to clean it, would they still be so enthralled with the story? Oh yes, Fitzwilliam, you’re a regular Lord Nelson.