After a long time sitting in silence, both staring into the fireplace, Fitzwilliam relit his pipe, stood, and walked toward the windows. It appeared that in a matter of days his universe had changed focus, centering now upon one exasperating but adorable young woman. He resented the people who had laughed and taunted her, evaluated her unfairly, and found her wanting.
And they would never accept Amanda or any other person without the requisite familial associations, proper ancestry, certainly would never acknowledge someone whose family had physically worked to provide hearth and home, even a physician and teacher as her father had been.
“You know, Anthony, I have begun to yearn for a home and a spouse, children.” He puffed on his pipe absently. “I had actually meant to properly court Amanda toward an eventual offer for her hand.” He shook his head sadly.
“No, she would never leave her son, Colonel, not even for you, and she would think a liaison the height of sinfulness. What a coil. You would have made a good husband for her.”
“Who said I won’t marry her?”
Anthony’s lips twitched a little. “Ah, you perhaps also have difficulties with the English language? I seem to have just wasted an inordinate amount of time and energy explaining why she will never marry.”
“I must have missed that. All I heard is that she won’t leave her son, perfectly natural and understandable. I simply won’t ask it of her, but we shall marry.”
At a loss for words, Anthony began to laugh, shaking his head in mild amazement.
They sat for quarter of an hour listening to a gentle rain outside before Fitzwilliam spoke again. “You know I had a similar conversation to this not long ago. My God, was it only weeks ago I swore that I would never marry, that it was something that held no interest for me? What a pompous ass I am.”
Anthony grinned devilishly, and Fitzwilliam cocked one eyebrow in mock hauteur. “May I know the reason for your amusement, sir?”
“I hope I do not offend you; however, I cannot but wish you had a brother I could meet.”
Fitzwilliam’s eyes wrinkled in humor, and he turned to his new friend. “Well, actually, I do have a brother, and we have been wondering why he has no interest in marriage and in producing the requisite heir. I wonder…”
***
“Is all well, your lordship?” The ancient butler, who had fallen asleep in Anthony’s chair, attempted to rise as his master walked into the bedroom’s dressing room.
“Sit, Bascome, rest. Why don’t you pour us both a drink? I have quite an enjoyable tale to tell you.” Anthony allowed his valet to help him shrug out of his jacket.
“I am very sorry that your lordship’s friend left in such an agitated state.”
“Who? Sir Edmund? Oh, do not concern yourself, old friend. I believe he will return.” He leaned down to take the brandy snifter. “I have a good feeling about him.”
“What of the colonel, sir? They have told me he showed great promise. Perhaps…?”
Anthony laughed as his valet undid his cravat. “Regretfully, no, Bascome, his interests quite literally lie elsewhere, shall we say?”
“More is the pity. He reminded me so much of our late Master Mario.” Anthony nodded and smiled wistfully, lighting up another cigarillo, then sat down to tell his old friend the tale of Amanda and Richard.
***
On the following morning, Sunday morning, Fitzwilliam felt terribly hung over but remarkably more optimistic, having identified his true enemy. Instead of the dashing Spanish aristocrat he had so feared, he found that the biggest obstacle to his future happiness appeared to be a social-climbing, elderly society matron. The Beast. The mother of Amanda’s late husband, Augustus, was tough as steel and bitter from her loss. Upon further reflection, he decided he might have preferred the Spanish aristocrat.
Chapter 13
It was the last Sunday before advent, and the carillon bells announcing early morning mass rang out high above ancient St. James Chapel. The streets were bustling with Spanish Place street vendors, shouting out their raucous greetings to one and all as they loaded their carts, readying themselves for the journey across to Covent Garden. Former soldiers warmed themselves around sputtering campfires, comparing war stories and wounds, exchanging bawdy remarks with the evening ladies who were finally making their exhausted way home.
Fitzwilliam jogged up the uneven stone steps and opened the church’s massive wooden doors, music from the men’s choir greeting him as he stepped into a musty darkness, taking a few moments for his eyes to adjust. It was a surprisingly large crowd, to his mind, for this early an hour. At the very least, an Anglican service would never interrupt the ton’s morning-after recuperation time like this.
He had no trouble spotting Amanda and Anthony. After a squeaky walk up the old center aisle, Richard slipped into the pew behind them. As a rather large British officer, he had caused something of a commotion upon entering the church, but he took this all in stride, excusing himself most graciously for the interruption, even exchanging pleasantries with the people around him. Only one or two of the faithful were brave enough to express their anger with him. Most seemed only sleepy, and others were just plain curious. “Pardon, please pardon…” he kept repeating politely in his rumbling baritone whisper, then he set his hat down on the seat beside him.
Anthony turned almost immediately, amused and nodding in welcoming acknowledgement, but Amanda’s reaction was one of stiff-backed bewilderment. On the pew between them sat a sleepy little boy, a beloved cloth toy clutched to his chest. He suckled his thumb as he nodded off to sleep.
Fitzwilliam had composed what he felt was a compelling argument to present to Amanda concerning their joint future. As he would before any battle, he had methodically examined each and every option, attempted to anticipate any unforeseen impediments, and had settled upon a clearly thought-out and logical plan of action. Now that his plan was decided upon, Fitzwilliam was eager to set it in motion. In his experience with battle, delay often meant defeat.
Managing to sit still in his pew for only a few moments, he came forward to kneel on the hard wooden slat. He poked Amanda once in the back, unaware that her face had already passed bright pink and was now approaching crimson. Her hand flew behind to swipe his away. “Amanda,” he gruffly whispered, “I need to speak with you.”
A chorus of “shhhhs” assailed him from every direction.
“Pardon me… My error… Terribly sorry…” Sufficiently chastised, he nodded apologetically to all around him and most drifted back into an inattentive daze, unwilling to further antagonize the intruder. After all, he towered over everyone, even kneeling down.
The choir started on their next hymn, the number in large letters on a board in the front of church. Casting about for a hymnal, Fitzwilliam snatched one from the pew behind him, turning to the indicated selection. It was with great relief that he recognized, “O God Our Help in Ages Past.”
“How very excellent. This hymn is one of the favorites of my youth,” he announced in an ear-deafening aside. Fitzwilliam faced forward and began to sing.
His booming baritone erupted like a bomb in the small chapel, easily drowning out the half-hearted Catholic bleating of the flock. Anthony’s shoulders began to shake. Amanda yelped. The child between them jumped as if bitten.
Up on the altar, Father Riley’s shoulders flinched, and he turned an annoyed glance in Fitzwilliam’s direction, removing his glasses and putting down the outline of the sermon he was reviewing. Many of the faithful in the congregation followed their pastor’s lead and strained to look at this most vocal of visitors.
Fitzwilliam, who had always considered singing at the top of your lungs in church the very best reason for attending, appeared blissfully content with the attention and graciously smiled back at one and all.
***
It was seven-thirty in the morning, and Harry Penrod was bored, bored with the hushed voices and the dim candles, bored with the slow, reverent singing. He was so bored that
he was even unwilling to fight, as he always did, the drift into sleep he was feeling. He sucked contentedly on his thumb and moved his tiny hand forward to play with the fringes of his mama’s shawl. Even horsey was not of any interest to him at the moment.
It was then that the earth shook, and Harry jumped from the shock, his head spinning around to see what disastrous event had occurred. To his great surprise, behind him stood the largest man he had ever seen, wearing a huge tent of a cloak, which when parted, revealed red material containing shiny brass medals and glimpses of golden braid.
It was a soldier!
Harry stared up at the giant for the longest time, speechless. What to do? What to do? Here was one of those moments his mama had warned him about that could divert him from respectful silence for Baby Jesus. On the one hand, he was only a little boy, but on the other, he had promised his mama to remain quiet and out of trouble for the duration of the mass. After all…
Baby Jesus never caused trouble.
Baby Jesus obeyed his nursey and put away his clothes.
Baby Jesus always finished his soup. Privately, Harry had once or twice sacrilegiously thought that Baby Jesus did not seem to be much fun, but still and all, Harry wished he could be like Baby Jesus, if only for a few moments.
Then the giant winked at him!
His little heart pumped wildly. Unable to resist, Harry pulled himself into a standing position to commence reconnaissance. Perhaps beneath that heavy cloak there were gold buttons and braids, more medals, velvet trim—oh, but it could be a hidden treasure trove of delights, this magnificent uniform. He gingerly pulled back the edge of the cloak to peek inside, hoping that the large man would somehow not notice this rather personal intrusion. Never before had he seen so much brass and gold—this must be a very important soldier, he reasoned, and such a huge expanse of red that it made his eyes swim! Pushing the cloak open even wider, he leaned way over and then sighed, disappointed not to see a bloody sword. He closed the cloak and then patted it fondly.
Chapter 14
The child sniffled, vigorously rubbing his nose back and forth across his sleeve, and oh, how Fitzwilliam remembered the days when there was no time for studies or naps or pianoforte lessons, let alone handkerchiefs. He retrieved a clean one from his pocket and held it over the child’s mouth and nose. The boy’s eyes flashed up to Fitzwilliam’s face as he blew his nose loudly into the cloth two or three times. Fitzwilliam then folded it over and dabbed the little nose dry before returning the saturated cloth to his pocket.
Harry stood up on tiptoes so that he could whisper near to Richard’s ear, “Thank you, sir.”
“You are quite welcome,” replied Fitzwilliam, smiling down at the beautiful youngster. With a child’s innocence, little Harry disregarded the imposing size of the man, only to see the gentle warmth of his smile, and smiled in return. He continued to regard Fitzwilliam for several more minutes.
“You are a soldier, sir.”
“Why, so I am,” Fitzwilliam responded, and the child nodded gravely, his eyes filled with respect.
He studied Fitzwilliam thoughtfully. Holding the back of the pew, he rocked back once or twice, his intense curiosity focusing on the many scars of battle he saw, on the soldier’s neck and forehead, the faint scar across his jaw, then finally he rested his gaze on a very large and ugly scar on Fitzwilliam’s hand. Utterly fascinated, he fingered it tenderly as he sniffled once more. Again he went up on his tiptoes to speak into Fitzwilliam’s ear. “From where did you receive this, sir? Was it in a battle?” he asked in his child’s little whisper.
Fitzwilliam nodded. “I received that at Waterloo,” he whispered back. The boy gravely nodded with all the immense respect due to the significance of that fact, even though he hadn’t a clue what a Waterloo was. Then he recollected a wound he himself had received in battle and pulled up his trouser. Twisting his leg around, he pointed to a scar on the back of his calf while he held onto Richard’s shoulder for balance. Richard reached his arm about the boy’s waist for support.
Richard dutifully studied the little scar and made an appropriately sympathetic noise. He raised an eyebrow inquiry.
“Dorset” was the identification of the battlefield.
Fitzwilliam stifled his chuckle with a discreet cough. “Ah.”
They stayed like that for several moments, the companionable silent bonding of two warriors. They were now best of pals, Harry’s arm stretched up to Fitzwilliam’s shoulder, which he would pat occasionally to comfort his new friend. Fitzwilliam still had his arm supporting the child’s waist.
He strained upward to speak into Richard’s ear again as he touched the scarred hand. “Did a Frenchie do that to you, sir?” His compassion was deeply serious, and Fitzwilliam nodded, much moved by the child’s sincerity.
Harry let that information take root for a moment in his five-year-old brain, and sighing, shook his head.
“Goddamn Frenchies…” he sympathized.
“All right, that is quite enough.” Amanda turned, no longer able to pretend ignorance of the conversation behind her.
Harry cast a worried glance up at his mother. “Whatever is wrong, Mama?” he whispered.
“Shush! Harry, please sit down now and pay attention to the mass,” she whispered back.
“But, Mama, I wasn’t doing anything bad,” he explained. “I have to give comfort to my new friend. He is a soldier. Don’t look at him. He’s been horribly disfigured by war.”
Amanda’s eyes went briefly up to Richard’s in mute apology, but he was grinning back at her, his eyes revealing his deep affection. A defeated Harry sat back down in his seat as his mother began her obligatory reprimand.
Fitzwilliam could not hear what was being said but felt a twinge of guilt seeing as he was equally to blame for the disruption. She was a gentle mother though—kind and firm, loving and sensible. Harry nodded and whispered something back, and then they kissed. Fitzwilliam’s heart swelled at the beautiful sight. After a moment, Harry looked back at Richard and smiled contentedly.
***
It was some time after the service had ended, and Richard now stood at the back of the church, waiting for Amanda, mentally reviewing his prepared comments for her, going over and over in his head the course before them. Absently, he twirled his bicorn hat in his hand as he nodded to the people streaming past him—the street vendors already late for work, the immigrant men who held their poor but proud heads high, the black-dressed, elderly women hurrying home, the street children looking for a few hours’ warmth, the Irish housemaids. He especially acknowledged the salutes of several old soldiers and happily spared them as much time and coin as they required.
Anthony reached him finally and accepted his handshake, while behind Anthony, a beaming Harry dragged his mother forward.
“Colonel Fitzwilliam, I am so surprised to see you here.” Amanda was breathless as an exuberant Harry bounced up and down on his heels. “Colonel, allow me to introduce you to my son, Harold Augustus Penrod. He is very anxious to make your acquaintance.”
“Mama, please let my hand go. I must make my bow. Grandmamma showed me.” He took a step forward and bowed deeply, showing a fine leg. “I am honored to make your acquaintance, Colonel.” He was for a brief moment the picture of elegance but then ruined the entire effect by sniffling and smiling broadly. “You are ever so tall, sir. I’ll bet you can see all the way to India, or Ireland.”
Richard beamed down at the boy. “Why don’t you see for yourself, lad?” He reached down and lifted Harry up onto his shoulders.
“Oh, Mummy! This is very high up! I should like to be this tall someday! Will I ever be this tall, do you think? How tall are you, sir? I don’t think Tio Anthony is even this tall!” Harry excitedly pumped his arms and legs as Fitzwilliam turned the twisting little body this way and that to see everything.
Observing the couple stealing glances at each other, Anthony reached up to retrieve Harry. “Let us give your mother and the colonel some priv
acy, eh? We will await you outside, Lady Penrod, Colonel.” As Anthony carried Harry out the door, he could sense the colonel’s single-minded intensity and Amanda’s apprehensive nerves, and laughed when he turned and saw her gazing anxiously after him.
Fitzwilliam cleared his throat first and adopted his usual formal parade stance. “Amanda, my dear…” he began; however, she spoke simultaneously. “Colonel…”
They both laughed awkwardly.
“Excuse me, madam. I wanted to apologize to you for my behavior the other evening, very unlike me, really. But please, you go first.”
“Thank you, Colonel. I was going to comment on the fact that you appear to already know Dr. Milagros. I have only recently learned of this.” After one quick glance up at his face, she returned her eyes to a level with his cloak button. “He has also just told me that you and he have recently spoken. Imagine my surprise.”
“Yes, and he has told me something of your situation…”
As he spoke, Amanda took a deep breath, her heart strumming. He looked so very masculine and strong and smelled very nice. And very handsome. Yes, he looked very handsome indeed. Amanda’s heart was hammering away determinedly and sounded so loud in her head that she heard nothing of what he was saying, only watched his mouth and admired his fine teeth. The knowledge that he had come here to seek her out, that he was truly that attracted to her and that interested made her suddenly bold, feeling desirable and feminine and alive. She trusted him. More importantly, she loved him desperately. Amanda had thought of little else than this man for two weeks and now had at last come to a spontaneous decision. She was going to live for the moment. She would agree to become his mistress!
Placing her hand on his arm, she interrupted him just as he was beginning the meatier part of his presentation. “Colonel, I have been thinking of what we spoke of at the Winter Ball. Perhaps we should see more of each other, as you said. Much more.” Closing her eyes, she inhaled deeply and rushed on. “Perhaps we could meet somewhere? You are an experienced man of the world, and I am sure you know of a place where a man and woman can have some private time together, a place that is discreet and out of the way.” Amanda had whispered this in such a rush that she needed to stop and catch her breath. Her face was crimson.
Darcy and Fitzwilliam: A Tale of a Gentleman and an Officer Page 22