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

by Karen Wasylowski

  Fitzwilliam cast his eyes up to heaven. Eloquent as ever, he intoned reverently, “Shit.” He turned to Darcy. “How did you find me?”

  “Natural brilliance, unsurpassed logic, plus I stumbled upon O’Malley. He’s a very good man, Fitzwilliam, but it appears he has a weakness for Gunther’s ices, as does Elizabeth. This week she has had a craving for lemon ices and figs. I spied him there and followed.”

  Fitzwilliam leaned back in his chair, a pleased look on his face. “I knew it! They have not said as much, but I do believe his wife, Isabella, has the same craving for ices as Elizabeth, and for the same reason.”

  “I was not aware that you were allowing O’Malley his marital rights. Conjugal visits are so very egalitarian. Decent of you, old man.”

  Fitzwilliam threw a chunk of cheese at his cousin’s head. “Do you know what is so pathetic about all of this, brat?”

  “You mean aside from your breath?”

  Richard loosened his collar and then the top of his pants, a heartfelt sigh of relief escaping him as he slouched down into his chair. “As you well know, I have never truly wanted to be married. Anyway, I made the claim often enough.”

  “And loud enough,” Darcy volunteered. Fitzwilliam glowered.

  “Well, pardon me, but marriage is necessary only as a means to pass on inheritance. And yet, here I sit, a pathetic love-starved fool, watching the clock for hours on end, counting the days until I see her. Damn me if I can understand how things changed so drastically and so quickly.” He reached into his pocket to bring out his beloved pipe. “‘Thy glory, O Israel, is slain upon thy high places! How are the mighty fallen.’”

  “And now you’re quoting the Bible. Dear Lord, we must be near the end of times.” Darcy saluted him with his glass of whiskey. “So, how are we enjoying married life?”

  Fitzwilliam snorted, grumbling something about Amanda hiding his tobacco pouch. He finally located it in his coat pocket, in the exact spot he had secreted it, and then began to fill the pipe. He used a candle flame to stoke the tobacco, then spread his hands over the immaculate white tablecloth, all the while giving impressive and grave consideration to Darcy’s question. His fingers worked out some imperceptible creases in the material. He crossed his legs.

  “How are we enjoying married life?” he mused, puffing once, then twice, and then removing his pipe to intently study the bowl. “Well, first and foremost, please allow me to say that I have never quarreled so much in my entire life.”

  Darcy began to laugh.

  “Ah, you laugh. What is truly terrifying is that I include in that statement all of my years of battle against the Corsican.” Fitzwilliam puffed. “Well, to continue, may I reasonably assume that yours is the laughter of the well experienced?”

  “Oh, yes. It is an unspoken truth that marriage can be a rather intense alliance at first, shall we say, and not always of the romantic bent.”

  “Intense!” Fitzwilliam began to quickly warm to his subject. “Intense! Darcy, my good man, they are not like us. Not even remotely. Now, I speak not of the obvious—the absence of both logic and reason. No, I refer to certain areas that really should be made plainer to men before they embark upon this life-changing commitment.” He puffed on his pipe, suddenly throwing back his head in a bark of laughter.

  “First off, I would like to know why they are so bloody sensitive about everything, especially their weight. ‘Do I look plumper?’ is an almost impossible question to answer. They also, apparently, never forget offenses, even if they do forgive them. The most difficult thing to me is the necessity to trot out innermost feelings and discuss them to death.” He shook his head, smiling delightedly at some memory then quickly feigned a scowl. “Well, obviously, since a true man has no innermost feelings, I agree with whatever she says.”

  Darcy shook his head as he settled himself lower in his chair, his long legs stretched out before him. “Elizabeth herself is of the female persuasion. It is her firm belief that over the course of a marriage, women invariably control everything—what we wear, how we raise our children, and ultimately how we behave—and we must willingly go along or die alone. The Benevolent Dictator is how I believe Uncle Bernard referred to Aunt Lucille.”

  “You’re right, I had forgotten that.” They both chuckled at the memory.

  Richard’s eyes wrinkled happily as he puffed on his pipe. “But by God, Darcy, I love every moment. I’ve never felt more alive in my life. We argue, make love and then have a good meal, laugh and talk. Then we make love again.” The light in his eyes could have brightened a small village. “In such a short time, she has become my closest friend, my lover, and my whole life.” He puffed thoughtfully on his pipe for a moment. “Sometimes I find I cannot breathe for wanting her.

  “And her son, Darcy… I have actually come to love that child as if he were my own. He is so happy, so full of boyish mischief and fun, and so very good-natured. I look at him and wish to God I could again be twenty-five when he is, instead of a doddering old fart in his fifties. He would be a most excellent companion, most excellent.” Richard sighed and looked wistfully into the fire. “I miss her so dreadfully sometimes.”

  “It is overwhelming to love someone more than yourself, isn’t it?”

  “I believe I would die for her, Darcy, I truly would.”

  Darcy nodded with complete understanding. “May I be permitted just two questions?”

  His cousin nodded.

  “Am I wrong to assume that your acquaintance with the lady is of a rather short duration? How long did you know her before your marriage?”

  Fitzwilliam shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “Long enough.”

  “It could not have been more than a few weeks, Fitz.”

  “As I said, Darcy, long enough. See here, I am accustomed to making crucial decisions quickly, could never have lived through the war if I had not.” His eyes glowed with purpose. “And I knew she was mine the moment I met her. Why prolong the inevitable? We both felt strongly about each other almost immediately.”

  Darcy had no argument for his friend, the deed already done and over at any rate.

  “My second question is why are you living like this? Why the secrecy?”

  Fitzwilliam put down his pipe to rub the exhaustion from his eyes before he answered. He briefly related Amanda’s situation to his cousin and then poured himself another drink.

  Darcy whistled softly. “What will you do?”

  Fitzwilliam waited a long time to answer. “If we cannot find a solution soon, and by soon, I actually mean immediately, we shall have to seize the boy and leave, secure a coach for Portsmouth or Dover, go to the Continent, and hide out there for a time.”

  “Richard, you do realize that you would not be able to come back. You’d be hounded by the authorities. You would both be fugitives.”

  Fitzwilliam had waited as long as he could for the worst news. “Yes, I know. In truth, I am thinking it will be best if we relocate to America. She still has her family home in Boston and some relations there to help us begin anew. As you know, I have no real means of surviving here without my father’s aid, and I could not ask him to support something like this.” Fitzwilliam inhaled deeply and raked his hand through his hair again. “We don’t even have the luxury now of examining our options. She believes she’s with child.”

  Darcy’s eyebrows shot up, and he smiled warmly at his cousin. “By God, Richard, I know it’s making it more difficult, but how glad I am for you.”

  Fitzwilliam could not contain his own smile. “Truth be told, I’m rather pleased myself. I had never hoped to have children of my own.”

  “America,” Darcy said quietly.

  Fitzwilliam nodded.

  “America!” Darcy repeated, the realization beginning to sink in.

  “Will you quit repeating that like we’re going to the moon?” Fitzwilliam ground out in irritation.

  “Bah! It’ll never happen.” Darcy tried to rally his drooping spirits. “I cannot possibly credit th
at Aunt Catherine would allow it!”

  They sat in quiet for a long while. “Would you be leaving soon?” The thought of his cousin’s leaving weighed heavily upon Darcy, knowing it unlikely he would be able to return to England once they fled.

  “I’d like to wait until the end of January, of course, until Elizabeth has the baby, but that may not be possible.”

  “Well, how can I help you, Fitz?” Darcy asked.

  “If needed, may we stay at your home, Darcy, for one night only? We would be leaving within the next week perhaps. I hate to drag you into this, but I want her to know she has a safe refuge to which she can escape should something go amiss.”

  Darcy fought off his growing sadness and laughed. “Come on, you great idiot, you know we never need beg favors of each other. Meanwhile, let’s get you home. Lizzy is driving me mad with her worry.”

  ***

  When they arrived at the Darcy’s house, Elizabeth was at the door to greet them, nearly in tears with her relief. Her hand firmly pressed onto her aching back, she waddled around the two men, staring up at their severe faces, greatly annoyed at not being acknowledged more demonstratively. She kept switching her weight from one foot to the next as they settled farther into the hallway and handed their coats and gloves to the footmen.

  Unable to restrain herself a moment longer, she began her outburst. “Richard Fitzwilliam, where have you been? We thought something ghastly had happened to you. You gave us such a fright! Did he not, William? Yes, a terrible fright! Everyone has been out looking for you, did you realize that? Was it something to do with that woman to whom you were attracted? Did you have an argument or something? That is so common, really. You must not take it to heart. Look at William and myself. Remember how horrid he was to me in the beginning? That horrid, demeaning, contemptible proposal he made me at first? But we overcame that, you see. I have forgiven him completely—the insult to my family, the humiliation, the cold disdain for my feelings. We never think of it anymore.” Darcy and Fitzwilliam’s eyes met briefly over her head, and both valiantly refused to grin. Darcy leaned down and kissed the top of his wife’s head.

  “Oh! Or was it something else? Did you get ill? Is he ill? Are you ill?” she shouted on the off chance that he had suddenly gone deaf.

  Fitzwilliam passed by and patted her shoulder then turned to speak in a loud whisper. “Is there any chance she will find a period to this sentence and employ it soon?” He began to ascend the stairs slowly, the fatigue and stress of the past weeks beginning to overwhelm him. “I take it I still have my old rooms upstairs, or have you moved me somewhere else?”

  “No, same place as always. Shall we wake you for breakfast?”

  “Not if you desire to live.” He turned and walked back down the two steps, leaning over to kiss Lizzy on both cheeks. “Good night, beautiful,” he muttered, “and thank you for the concern.” He then disappeared up the stairs. Elizabeth and Darcy both watched him until he turned the corner of the hallway.

  “Well, that is very strange, I must say!” Elizabeth whispered, one hand pressed to her lips. She turned to look up at her husband. “Very extraordinary, don’t you think? I shall have to go up and speak with him tomorrow.”

  “Leave him be for a while, please, Elizabeth. And by the way, how did you get down those stairs? Hmmm? Did you call for assistance? I do not seem to see the carrying chair down here, do I?” Sighing, Lizzy rolled her eyes and waddled silently away, shaking her head and holding onto her back.

  “Don’t you walk away from me, young woman!” Darcy’s hands were planted on his hips. “I am speaking to you, Mrs. Darcy!”

  Chapter 18

  December 24, 1817

  Dearest Emily,

  I hope this letter finds you well and having a merrier Christmas at Penwood than we are experiencing here at Pemberley House. It is with a heavy heart I convey to you that my brother has lost his mind completely and is attempting to take us all down with him. There is to be no Christmas pudding, no mistletoe, no garlands of ivy, no gifts, and no wassail.

  “What is left to you, dear friend?” you may ask. We are left with something akin to the Twelve Days of Good Friday rather than Christmas.

  We are left with servants hiding below stairs whenever possible, hiding so determinedly that one must drag them from their rooms by their feet.

  We are left only with the “Interminable Wait” for the “Blessed Event,” although my dear brother grows paler each time he calls it that. He has alienated everyone, including the dogs, and his temper is so tightly coiled at this time that I fear his eyeballs will pop from their sunken crevices.

  What concerns me most is that even the doctor has taken umbrage, refusing to return his calls, saying there is “plenty of time yet.” He has even refused my brother’s requests to install the midwife a month early, and I fear my brother is more persistent than prudent. We will all be glad when this is over.

  And dear Elizabeth is sometimes an afterthought in all the horror.

  Many thanks to you for allowing me to vent my frustrations like this. You are a true “Friend in Need.” I shall look forward to seeing you Boxing Day at Bunny Bridges’s holiday gathering, which will probably be the only merry time this year for me.

  Yours in friendship,

  Georgiana Darcy

  ***

  Miss Georgiana Darcy did not, in any manner, exaggerate the mood at Pemberley House at Christmastime in the year of our Lord 1817. There were indeed no wishes to stir into the Christmas pudding. There was no mistletoe, no garland, no wassail. A goose life was spared, the fowl in question remaining undressed and happily ignorant of his near-death experience. Perfectly good presents remained unmolested upon shop shelves.

  Darcy’s fears for Elizabeth’s pregnancy had progressed over the past months into an unreasoning hysteria as he envisioned his delicate wife, now much larger horizontally than vertically, in the throes of childbirth. Nightmares disturbed his sleep.

  And she had still another month to go. Another four weeks for that behemoth, that monster, that fiend within her to continue its unchecked growth! Darcy had purposefully removed Elizabeth from the country, from the very bed in which his own mother had died giving birth to Georgiana. He had purposefully brought her to his beloved London, the city with superior physicians and advanced medical practices. He had not, however, counted on the greater crowds, almost twice as large as the prior year, and the noise! London, bursting at this holiday season and still celebrating the allies victory! Was this damned commemoration never to end?

  ***

  The house remained in expectant quiet and seemed deserted to the innocent outside world, the knocker still packed somewhere within the attic, giving notice that no visitors were welcome. But those who lived within knew better. They who lived there, and all of surrounding St. James, waited.

  VOLUME THREE

  THE FAMILY

  1817

  “There is no remedy for love,

  But to love more.”

  —Henry David Thoreau

  Chapter 1

  Damn it to hell! Darcy took one last look up the stairs before storming out into the frosty night. I should not be forced to run like some criminal, driven from my own house, by my own wife. He paced back and forth on his front stoop, his breath blooming out around him with every heated exclamation, every “harrumph,” every “damnation,” every “ridiculous” that was spat out. Stomping his feet on the chilly pavement, he slapped his arms to ward off the freezing winter temperatures. She’s lost her mind, that’s all there is to it. I shall care for her, of course, for as long as she lives, and if she’s not careful, that won’t be too much longer.

  He was furious with Elizabeth for her unprovoked behavior, while even angrier with himself for still feeling concern—and to what purpose? It was Boxing Day, the day after Christmas. He had approached their room with the noblest of intents. He would bring supper up for them both, sparing her an arduous trip up and down the staircase. Besides, most of t
he servants were off for their Yule holiday, and he wanted Mr. and Mrs. Winters to have a well-deserved rest also. He was perfectly willing to pitch in, warm up something or slice something, do whatever culinary magic it would entail to feed his beloved. How hard could it be?

  He just required the most minimum of direction, such as just where the kitchen was exactly and how to light the oven, perhaps a recommendation on which pan to use and if he needed some sort of oil, and mayhap she could direct him to where those pans were actually kept, and the silverware—they would need silverware and dishes, too. Lizzy would help him. She liked blancmange. Could that be very difficult? And dressed lamb—that was his favorite.

  He was too proud to admit his ignorance to the few remaining servants. Perhaps he should aim a bit lower. By God, wouldn’t some nice fruit and cheese be better all around, healthier, less trouble, too? Now, where was the fruit? And the larder? Where was cheese stored anyway?

  To his shock, he had been greeted at the door not by his adoring wife but by some hysterical banshee propelling objects at him, great, heavy glass and metal objects, sailing lethally and deliberately through the air, accompanied by screams of “Liar” and shrieks of “How could you?” over and over again.

  In his bewilderment, he never noticed the note that lay in shreds at her feet nor the locket she had clutched to her chest. He was too busy with his evasive action, his bobbing and weaving. All he knew for certain was that he was half an hour late in coming to her rooms, and this was his punishment. His ungrateful wife had finally snapped, did not appreciate him, never had. Suddenly anger and resentment could no longer be restrained, and they commenced a series of door slamming and verbal denunciations.