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

by Karen Wasylowski

  “No, Lady Catherine, they were both at least third-generation Americans.”

  A clearly disappointed Catherine shrugged. “Ah, well. Pity, that.” Catherine’s gaze drifted up and down Amanda’s face and figure. She certainly was a beautiful young woman with graceful manners, straight white teeth, nice skin. Quite surprising, really, considering her disgusting origins. With proper training and decent clothing, she could be almost presentable.

  If only she wouldn’t speak.

  “Your parents were both of English descent, however, were they not?” Have pity on me, please, dear merciful Savior in heaven.

  Amanda eyed the old dragon, barely suppressing her grin. “Well, actually, Lady Catherine, my father was half Scottish as well as half English; however, he was a staunch Royalist until his death.”

  “As well he should be, and even beyond.” Catherine was beginning to warm to this family. “Well, that is very commendable and, may I say, surprisingly welcome news. Now what of your mother, madam? I trust that she was fully English.”

  Amanda forced herself to look away and not to laugh outright. “My mother was lamentably only partly English, your ladyship.”

  Catherine frowned. She truly hated flies in her family ointment. “I see, I see. Might one enquire what her other ‘part,’ as it were, was?”

  Amanda locked her gaze onto Catherine’s. She felt, rather than heard, Catherine’s breathing stop with anticipation.

  “My mother was half Abenaki.”

  Catherine blinked for a few moments.

  “I beg your pardon?” she questioned her politely. “Is that somewhere in Wales?”

  Amanda steeled herself. “No, your ladyship. Actually, that is not a city. It is an Indian nation. American Indian. The Abenaki people are located mostly in Maine—northern Maine to be precise. My grandmother was of the Passamaquoddi tribe.”

  The countess paled, emitting a small moan. In fact, Amanda noted the exact time when her ladyship retreated to her own little happy place, shutting the door tightly to her conscious mind. Her eyes glazed over, and she began to hum tunelessly.

  “Lady Catherine?” Amanda prompted. “Excuse me… Lady Catherine?”

  “Hmm?”

  “Are you all right?”

  “Good heavens.” She pinched the bridge of her nose. “Are you still here?” She looked absolutely bleak. “Well, well, well. I would suppose there is nothing we can do about that now.” Catherine sighed and bravely smiled. “I am sure there is no need to be quite so detailed in our explanations.” She narrowed her eyes and took a better look at her new niece, determined that whatever could be salvaged from this wreckage would be found and utilized. “Yes, well, I can present you most favorably when the time comes, with ample instruction and a good hair stylist. Perhaps a good diction coach can be applied for.” Catherine nodded to herself, in full agreement with her own assessment.

  “As long as you’re not a papist!” Catherine burst out with laughter. She snorted. La, what a disaster that would be. “Good Lord in heaven, I can deal with anything but that!” She chuckled delightedly and licked her lips at her own witticism. She chuckled until she caught Amanda’s eyes shift guiltily away, taking with them a look of absolute horror and total remorse.

  Catherine’s chuckle degenerated into a pathetic whimper.

  “Oh, merde,” she finally groaned.

  Amanda, who would normally have taken offense at these remarks, suddenly began to laugh. To her surprise, she found she was beginning to like this insane old woman who was daffy and vain and outrageous. Lady Catherine actually reminded Amanda of her own mother, though she would never dare to tell her. Gracie Sayles had been a beautiful, outspoken, and passionately funny woman who had adored life, her husband, and her beautiful little daughter, and had died much too soon.

  “Richard was angrier than I have ever seen him. What if he truly sues for a formal separation?”

  Catherine shook her head, her eyes softening as the woman before her struggled on so bravely to neither cry nor vomit. She handed Amanda a clean handkerchief and a glass of water. “I have seen you both together, and I am positive he loves you at least as much as you love him. I believe he just needs time to cool that horrible Scots temper that goes off periodically—a gift from his mother’s heritage, by the way, not in any way to be confused with the Fitzwilliam side’s more elegant manner of dealing with crisis.” Catherine mused for a long moment.

  “Amanda, we have at least twenty-four hours to bring the child to Penwood. I want to speak with you further, but I want you and the boy to leave here before Richard returns. It would be best if you two had some space between you at the moment. I suggest you and the boy come home with me and rest.”

  Still somewhat suspicious, Amanda looked at the regal dragon. “Why are you being so kind to me? You dislike me, or have you forgotten?”

  Catherine’s eyes twinkled. “Do not flatter yourself, dear. My feelings for you are not nearly that engaged. However, I do love both of my nephews as if I had borne them myself. Darcy has married and is happy, blissfully, so it appears, in spite of all of my dire predictions. He was a good man before marrying Elizabeth and, as hard as this is to admit, he has emerged an even better one because of that union.

  “I would like to see that happen to Richard. Will you come with me to my home? We can talk there about what needs to be done.”

  Amanda sat back on the sofa for a long time, looking first confused, then tired, then resigned. “Yes. Let me get our things.” She suddenly held her hand over her mouth and groaned. “Might I hope that you have macaroons at your home?”

  Chapter 13

  Fitzwilliam paced nervously in the huge visitor’s parlor of Rosings House, twirling his badly battered military hat around and studying every knickknack and picture, none of it registering in his conscious mind. He wondered if he would see Amanda today. It had been two days. Over two days, actually—fifty-three hours and twenty-five minutes. He wondered what he would say to her if he did see her. A very small part of him was still furious at her words and vowed never to speak with her again. However, the entire remainder of him missed her so greatly that he had to fight the impulse to run bellowing through the house in search of her.

  He hadn’t eaten or slept in their time apart, and the previous night had been the worst night of his life.

  “Hello, Richard.” He heard her gentle voice, and his heart constricted in pain. He turned quickly around.

  “Hello, ’manda.”

  They stood in an awkward silence, not wanting to look at each other but too weak to look away.

  “You look tired, Richard,” she said softly, and he nodded.

  “I haven’t slept very well.” Not sterling conversation, but it was a beginning. “You also look tired…” His sentence ended on a somewhat hopeful note, then he berated himself for being so shallow. Seeing the dark circles under her eyes and her pale lips, he decided to speak with Catherine about ensuring that she ate enough and rested.

  “Lady Catherine says she has developed a plan to regain custody of Harry. She seems very convinced this will work.”

  “Well, she averages five delusional days a week, so I wouldn’t put much stock in it.” He was attempting to add a comical tone to his voice but made sure to remain distant and polite. “Is he is still with you, then? They haven’t taken him?”

  “Yes, praise God. Lady Catherine has been calling in all of her favors for us. Evidently, she really is related to Lord Liverpool. Your family never ceases to amaze. It has given us more time to fight this.”

  “Capital, excellent.” He handled his hat nervously. “If anyone can command favors, it is certainly Catherine.” Part of the hat braiding came off in his hand. “By the way, ’manda, about the other day,” he looked around and then stuffed the braiding into his pocket. “I don’t want you to think I would actually take our child from you. I was angry and lost control of my emotions, very unlike me, really. I know you have little reason to trust me now, but I v
ow I will support you and whatever decision you make about the baby.”

  “I, too, am sorry for what I said, Richard.” She seemed to struggle with the right words to say. “It seems I deliberately went out of my way to say what would hurt you. Forgive me. I would never, ever consider our time together to have been a mistake. Our child is precious to me. And you will make a most wonderful father.”

  The grim lines by his mouth softened, but they had said so many things to each other. It perhaps was too soon to forget, even if they could forgive.

  “We do seem to have some pretty powerful arguments, do we not?”

  Unable to answer, she stared intently at her clutched hands as if fascinated by them. He watched as her emotions effected changes across her beautiful face. “Yes. We both seem to possess rather overly passionate natures.”

  My God, look at her. A man would swim an ocean for a just moment with her. And he knew instinctively that he would never leave her, would never love another. He would willingly wait a lifetime for her.

  “Darcy believes our problems stem chiefly from the simple fact we are both legally insane and that we will most likely blow each other’s brains out within the year.” His heart was pumping wildly, and all he could think of was the smell of her hair and her soft skin and her tenderness when she made love to him.

  She agreed sadly and shrugged, then looked down again to her hands.

  “He also declares that there are no two people in the world better suited for each other.”

  Quickly, she looked up, joy flooding her face with color. “Did he? Did he really?” She sounded so reassured. “Oh, well, I must say that was very sweet of him.”

  “I am not quite sure he meant that as a compliment, Amanda.”

  ***

  At that moment, Catherine glided into the room. “Ah, the lovebirds! How wonderful to see you both speaking so civilly to each other. So much better than all that screeching incoherently at the top of your lungs, don’t you think?” She smiled beatifically at the stiff, awkward, and miserably unhappy duo.

  “Well, that’s enough of that. I hate to break up this heartwarming scene, but I believe our carriage is arriving outside, Richard. Amanda, you will wait for us here. If we are successful, which I believe we will be, we may finally settle this custody issue in your favor. Are you ready, Nephew?”

  “Yes, I am ready, Aunt Catherine.” He placed a hand on his hip and stood facing her. “But for what exactly am I ready? What is this plan you have devised? And believe me, I await in stark terror for your reply. You have no idea how it chills me to the very marrow of my bones to go along with one of your schemes, unknowing of what to expect.”

  I shall call the decorator and have this entire hallway redone in a Persian motif. Yes, that would be very good, since I do look so very well in blue silk. I draw the line, however, at wearing turbans. Too fanatical a fashion statement, if anyone was to ask me… Catherine was walking serenely past him when his words finally took root in her brain. Aghast and insulted, she snatched first her reticule and then her gloves from Jamison, after which he was forced to follow her at a respectable distance, holding up her cloak as she angrily paced back and forth. “Whenever have I ever done anything to cause you or anyone else any concern?!”

  Fitzwilliam whimpered, and his hand went immediately to his flip-flopping stomach. For unknown reasons, Catherine took this motion as some sort of an apology and an admission of his gross unfairness toward her. “And see that you don’t!” No one understood what that meant either.

  ***

  An outside footman opened the door and nodded to the butler. At last donning her cloak Catherine motioned for Jamison to open the great doors, aunt and nephew emerging into the brilliant winter morning. Almost immediately, the most magnificent coach Fitzwilliam had ever beheld approached the front portico of Rosings House, pulled by four immense, matching black Arabians.

  Emitting an impressed whistle, he turned toward his aunt, a suspicious gleam in his eye. “Who in the world owns this, then?” He searched for a crest or some indication of the owner, but there was nothing, only the black mirrored reflection of themselves standing there. A coach this magnificent was reserved for royalty; not even a duke or an earl would dare be this ostentatious. It was large enough for the entire royal family.

  Four liveried guards riding abreast of the carriage confirmed his impression. A wigged footman in black and gold jumped down from the rear of the carriage and ran to open the door as another came from nowhere to offer his hand in assistance. Catherine motioned for Fitzwilliam to follow as she was handed into the coach. The footmen bowed to him.

  “Richard, you know Mrs. Fitzherbert, do you not? I believe the last time you saw her you were ten years old and setting fire to a chamber pot.” Catherine spoke cheerfully, nearly bubbling over with good humor and pride. “Maria, as you know, was my dearest friend during my single days at court. We had such good fun.” The lady smiled warmly at Lady Catherine while taking her hand and giving it a loving pat, then turned to Fitzwilliam.

  Chapter 14

  Mrs. Maria Fitzherbert was rightful wife of George, Prince of Wales, the future George IV, King of England, or so she was regarded by certain members of the upper ten thousand. The prince had married the twice-widowed Mrs. Fitzherbert in a Catholic ceremony, and they had lived secretly together until, sadly, the King dissolved the marriage and forced his union with another. Now in their older years, it was Mrs. Fitzherbert in whom the prince confided, regarded as his soul’s true life partner. Although he still kept many mistresses, she was his dearest friend.

  “It’s an honor to see you again, madam.” Fitzwilliam took her hand and kissed it. Long accustomed to royal circles, he was polite but not in awe. He was confused by her presence.

  “The honor is mine, Colonel Fitzwilliam. I don’t believe my husband and I have properly commended your valor at Waterloo.” She smiled warmly at him, her eyes crinkling with warmth. “We followed the campaigns very closely over the years. You are very highly regarded as a true hero in our home, sir.”

  ***

  Teatime at Penwood saw the dowager Lady Marguerite Penrod hard at work at her desk, penning instructions to her solicitors, menus for the week ahead with treats that she knew her grandson favored, rejection letters to the many applicants for position of governess. Beneath these neat stacks were more important letters—letters from and to boarding schools. The farther she could send the child, the less influence the American would have. The less influence the American would have, the better chance her grandson would be brought up properly—as an English gentleman befitting his rank and title.

  Her butler scratched lightly at the door, entering discreetly the moment he was instructed. He walked solemnly to her side, the beautifully understated calling card lying face up in the center of the silver salver. When she did not immediately acknowledge him, he coughed softly to draw her attention. She slammed her hand down onto the desk.

  “Did I not tell you I was to be left alone this afternoon? Why must every instruction I issue be compromised?” She sighed angrily. “Whoever is out there, send them away.”

  “Forgive me, madam. I thought perhaps you would make an exception in this case.” His eyes drifted anxiously to the card. He appeared very nervous.

  Curiosity getting the better of her, she gave him a calculated, hard glare then snatched the card from the tray. Within moments, her expression swept from annoyance to ecstasy. It was then felled by a look of apprehension. Ordinarily she would have been overjoyed at the tremendous honor of a visit by none other than Lady Catherine de Bourgh herself. However, she had been made recently aware that her appalling daughter-in-law was somehow involved with both the countess’s nephews, meeting scandalously for a liaison with one and hiding her son at another’s home. Alarm spoiled what would have been her immense pride at this unprecedented visit.

  Surely Lady Catherine de Bourgh would not assign any responsibility to her for the whole unseemly affair. Why the woman w
asn’t even English—was a savage American, in fact, and certainly never again to be welcomed into this home. Yes, that’s what she would assure her. Possibly together they could even force Amanda to return to America, demand to have her deported. Or shot. Lady Catherine de Bourgh had connections, tremendously powerful connections.

  Lady Catherine assuredly is as very much opposed to this match as I am, perhaps even more so… Yes, indeed, this could be my entrée into the higher circles of the aristocracy. Very likely, Lady Catherine de Bourgh will be extremely happy to see the back of that American and is seeking my assistance. She may even recommend me for vouchers to Almack’s, even perhaps an invitation to Carlton House!

  In fact, the more she thought about it, the more Lady Penrod believed that to be the most probable reason for the visit. After all, they were sort of kindred spirits in this whole fiasco. Lady Catherine would have no doubts as to her assistance in this. No, Lady Catherine de Bourgh would see that she had a most loyal ally in Lady Marguerite Penrod.

  “Please show her in immediately,” she commanded in a most exasperated manner. “Why ever are you just standing there? Move!” Imagine leaving Lady Catherine in the foyer, cooling her heels! She smoothed down the imperceptible wrinkles in her dress. How’s my hair? She quickly rose from the desk to check her appearance in the mirror, when in the reflection, she saw Lady Catherine enter.

  She stepped forward, grandly extending her hands to her illustrious guest, a huge, welcoming smile on her lips. The smile evaporated quickly and turned into stunned and frozen shock at the personage who entered after Lady Catherine.

  “The Woman” was being led into the room by an army colonel, her hand resting companionably upon his arm.

  “Lady Marguerite Penrod, may I introduce Mrs. Maria Anne Fitzherbert, and I believe you already know of my nephew, Colonel Richard Fitzwilliam.” Lady Penrod curtseyed so low that she had trouble arising. Her heart was pounding.