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

by Karen V. Wasylowski

  “Mr. Darcy, did you have sexual congress with Caroline Bingley?!”

  His continued silence was all the answer she really required by that point. She scrambled from the bed, refusing to allow any part of her body to be contaminated by him, and stared down at that dark and now-evil form. It was as if Satan himself had crawled into bed between them. Eventually, he rolled onto his back then ran his fingers roughly through his hair. Next, he sighed. He then said the words all women dread to hear.

  “Elizabeth, it was such a long time ago.”

  ***

  The following morning brought a surprise to Darcy’s majordomo. When he entered the couple’s bedchamber, the fire in the grate was completely cold, and the bed was empty. He looked in mild apprehension around an apparently deserted room. He knew instantly that something was dreadfully wrong as he scanned the broken vases and overturned books. The two dogs, Buck and Milo, looked up. They had been calmly ripping apart several bed pillows between them, feathers laying everywhere. Happy woofs were their greeting to Bradford, anticipation of their imminent run outside and breakfast sent tails loudly thumping. There was, however, no sign of human life anywhere.

  It was clear that the bed had been entered at some point, but the covers were still in an almost pristine condition, not wrestled about, half off the bed and half on, as on most mornings. A movement on the settee in the adjoining sitting room, a figure covered by a great quilt, caught his eye.

  The form groaned and turned toward the light streaming in through the windows where Bradford had just pulled back the curtains to reveal the extent of destruction. The form was Mr. Darcy!

  He shielded his eyes quickly from the brightness, and once he had made out who the intruder was, put up his hand in greeting. “Bradford, good morning. Terribly sorry for this mess.” He waved his arm vaguely to encompass the bedroom and then the rest of London. He let his head crash back down on the sofa.

  He looked hideous—well, as hideous as the handsome Mr. Darcy could look. Bradford slowly entered farther into the room, now seeing broken picture frames and torn clothing, overturned chairs and one or two mirrors balanced precariously on their sides in the corners.

  “Is everything all right, sir?” It was an absurd question. Clearly evident were the remains of the couple’s first out-and-out brawl. It was also painfully evident to him that Darcy and Elizabeth, for the first time in their young marriage, had not slept in the same bed.

  Darcy moaned and turned his face into the sofa again. “Mrs. Darcy and I have had a bit of a contretemps.” He then slowly pulled the cover up over his head.

  In another first in their relatively short months of wedded bliss, there was no evidence of the mistress of the house at breakfast, her most favored meal, or again at lunch, her other most favored meal. Several of the staff began to speculate about dinner and if the bottom of the lake should be investigated. The gossip in the servants’ hall would stop whenever Bradford came through but revived the moment his door closed.

  Chapter 7

  Darcy paced back and forth, alternately angry and contrite, unsure of what to do or how to say it. How could he explain something that had happened so long ago, at a time when he was incredibly naïve?

  He had been introduced to the lovely Caroline Bingley by his older and hopelessly randy cousin, Richard Fitzwilliam, during a fashionable dinner party at Carlton House. A favorite with the high flyers, Caroline had been much younger when she initiated her ultimately unsuccessful campaign to barter morals for an advantageous match. Alas, when push came to shove, she was only a tradesman’s daughter, and always would remain one.

  She had pursued the incredibly handsome newcomer, Darcy, until he succumbed after a night of heavy drinking and unsuccessful gaming. It had been a satisfying three hours, vaguely remembered, but three hours that he never cared to repeat. It had meant little to him then and was conveniently forgotten with time.

  Standing before his wife’s sitting-room door, he was prepared to knock but hesitant. How could they discuss this problem in an adult, rational manner when they appeared to be one rational adult short? The Elizabeth he had seen last evening was a stranger to him, a spoiled child with her screeching and outrage. The behavior she exhibited had confused him; her lack of emotional control baffled him. He stared at the closed door and sighed. What could he do? God alone knew how much he missed his beloved angel and closest friend, and that after only one night apart. Why, he missed her so much that he wanted to strangle her. This was ridiculous; he was head of his household, after all. He would simply demand she listen to him.

  Darcy abandoned that idea when the first flowerpot hit the wall.

  “Elizabeth!” He was shocked, his indignity magnified as he spun around clumsily to avoid being crowned by a water pitcher that sailed just to the left of his head and hit the doorframe. “This is insupportable! This is outrageous! You cannot throw water pots!”

  “You are right yet again, Mr. Darcy. It would not usually be my first choice. I personally believe it’s because their center of gravity is so low. If you will but allow me another opportunity, I will switch to statuettes! My ability with those has grown leaps and bounds!” He quickly closed the door before it was smashed, fittingly, by a small replica of Cupid, and leaned his back against the frame, his hands fisted at his waist. Well, it’s obvious that she has lost her mind. Darcy prided himself as always on his calm, his reasoning capabilities. I am married to a madwoman. How much more ridiculous could this argument become? A fit caused by an affair that had happened so long before her, not even an affair really—more a frisky moment. Did she believe he had lived like a monk all those years?

  “Elizabeth!” he called through the closed door, “will you please allow me to enter so that we can discuss this rationally, like adults?” He heard nothing from within. “Oh cut line, Lizzy, please give me a chance to explain.”

  “There is nothing in the world you could say to me at this moment, sir. We are through. I never want to set eyes upon you again. Would you be so good as to help me pack my things and drive me to my father’s house?”

  “Elizabeth, you are being incredibly foolish. Any association I had with Caroline Bingley happened ages ago, before my friendship with Charles.”

  Darcy never imagined that his sweet, beloved, elfin wife could be capable of such rage. Of course, he had never before been subjected to the delicate sentiments of a pregnant woman. It was ghastly. He grew truly concerned when he heard her sobs begin, and then her labored breathing coming in gasps. “Sweetheart, think of the child and calm down.”

  After several moments, the door slowly opened. “Speak,” she commanded as she turned to walk back into the room. She then sat in regal silence, her eyes red-rimmed and her hair sticking out Medusa-like from her head.

  Darcy took a few steps in and closed the door behind him. “Now you are being sensible. Good thing you let me in; I believe the servants were beginning to suspect something was amiss.”

  She lifted her hairbrush threateningly.

  “All right, all right.” Raising both his hands in a plea for truce, he took a seat directly opposite her. Where to begin? How to begin? “It happened years ago, a short time before I first met Bingley, when Fitzwilliam and I returned from our grand tour. We were both just out of university.”

  An unblinking Elizabeth gazed straight past him, her hairbrush still poised to attack at any moment.

  “It is all Fitzwilliam’s fault, you know. He introduced me to Caroline. They had met through a mutual acquaintance, an officer friend of both, and I have to admit I thought she was very, very pretty.” With that, Elizabeth turned cold, dead eyes to Darcy. They narrowed on him dangerously. “Well, she is, or was, anyway. Maybe one ‘very’ would have been sufficient, eh?” When Elizabeth didn’t respond to his jest, he continued with the narrative.

  He rubbed his hands nervously across his thighs. “As I was saying,” he began, “it was after a gathering we had all attended, one of many that had been, well, m
ore than a bit wild and bawdy, and we, uh, all had a great deal too much to drink, and… and…”

  “You are a drunkard and a debaucher. Thank you. I feel ever so much better.” She was not letting him off the hook so very easily.

  “Well, I was not her first, Elizabeth, if that’s what you’re implying. I was no seducer of an innocent.”

  Elizabeth allowed an exaggerated eyebrow to rise. “Oh, really?” Suddenly her mood became ferocious. “How many times were you with her?” she barked out. The Spanish Inquisition had been more gregarious.

  “Once. Well, twice actually, but both on the same night. The first time, I believe I fell asleep on her. Well, not exactly on her…” The lethal hairbrush was quickly on the rise again.

  “Does Bingley know?” she snapped.

  “Good Lord, I hope not. No one knows except you… and Fitzwilliam. She had several men before me, Lizzy, and after me, too. She had become quite legendary. Just ask him.”

  Lizzy’s eyeballs opened wide. “Really? He also…?” she asked, more interested now in acquiring the ton gossip than her own problems. Darcy didn’t really know for sure, but Fitzwilliam had introduced them and had been mildly attracted to her, as well, had spent some time with her, and knowing Caroline, it was very possible. “Don’t be naïve, Lizzy.” What the hell. “Yes, of course Fitzwilliam, too. He’s no saint, you know.”

  She lowered the hairbrush. “Well… once I could somewhat imagine, when you were exceedingly drunk. Blind and deaf as it were. But twice tells me you regretted missing out on the first and waited around to have a try at her again.” Her lower lip quivered in a small pout, and her arms crossed in front of her.

  “I was very young, and she was making herself extremely available. Men are different than women.”

  Elizabeth rolled her eyes and harrumphed. All at once she looked exhausted and defeated. “That, Mr. Darcy, is one of the sorriest excuses ever used by men for their abysmal behavior. And believe me, sir, I have never found the comparison used in a good light.” She placed the hairbrush down onto her dresser. “Is there anyone else I need worry about from your wild and reckless youth?”

  “No, of course not, Elizabeth. Not unless we happen to meet Elinor Prescott-Pickard at a ton function,” he muttered and tried to think of the odds that they would come in contact with Jennie Dewar or her twin sister, Lady Cathie, more Carlton House lovelies. Elizabeth grunted and massaged her sleepy eyes.

  “Will you come back to our bed tonight?” he asked softly, and she nodded after making him wait just a few minutes longer.

  “Will you forgive me for not telling you sooner?”

  Again she nodded, and he could see that the storm had passed. “William?”

  “Yes, Lizzy?”

  Her eyes began to twinkle. “Can we get some food sent up, please? I am famished. See if Cook can make up some spinach-and-cheese puffs. And some ham. Maybe those tarts we had last week—the cherry ones. Oooh, and honey. I have a craving for honey with pickles…”

  Darcy walked over and quite energetically pulled her into his arms.

  “One more thing”—she looked deeply in his eyes—“I do not want to be in the same room ever again with Caroline Bingley, is that understood?” Darcy nodded in agreement. He was so relieved, he would have agreed to most anything. This was an easy promise.

  “I will have to explain something to Jane. I don’t know what I would do if I ever saw that husband-stealing, wretched, common tart person again!”

  Chapter 8

  Not many of life’s wishes and dreams can come true, and certainly Lizzy’s hopes to avoid Caroline were thwarted almost immediately. A short while after Lizzy’s porcelain-throwing demonstration, and much to everyone’s surprise, Lizzy’s mother passed away quietly in her sleep. She had been a relatively young woman, merely in her late forties, and so, although the poor woman had been ailing for quite some time, complaining for years, in fact, the first impression in the little town of Meryton was that the doctor must be exaggerating the seriousness of her condition, might want to examine her again. After all, she was known far and wide as a sound sleeper.

  When her demise was confirmed, the second impression was that it was such a pity—she had so counted on her husband dying first.

  Jane and Lizzy both agreed that their mother must be absolutely furious, wherever she was. There was a cruel injustice in this, of her being denied time to reap the rewards of having her two eldest daughters so wealthy and well situated, and then there was her youngest married to a handsome, if disreputable, commissioned officer. Three of five daughters married within a year. It was almost biblical. Why, she was a female Moses having led her two remaining unmarried daughters to the very edges of the Promised Land and then not being allowed to enter.

  For his part, Mr. Bennet was certainly as put out as his wife, possibly more so, horrified at finding himself suddenly alone at the forefront of his family, a man who had paid little if any attention to their needs before. He had no idea of what to do, so he did what had worked so well for him in the past. He went into his library and remained there, never to come out, at least not until he was absolutely certain that the body had been examined by her physician and carted away, and positively not a moment before he had handed the unpleasant responsibility of funeral arrangements to his son-in-law, Darcy. A situation which seemed completely natural to all concerned.

  ***

  The funeral day had the appropriate grey cast along with a slight drizzle of rain when the little group of mourners gathered around the open grave site. Mr. Bennet stood with Kitty and Mary on either side. Darcy had a protective arm around Lizzy, while Charles was doing the same with Jane. The only one of the sisters not there was Lydia, who was due to deliver her third child at any moment and could not make the journey south.

  Charlotte and Mr. Collins, Charlotte’s parents, and one or two representatives of the Meryton community were also there. It was not a large group, but a group that sincerely mourned the passing of a member from their small circle.

  If anyone had asked her opinion, however, Elizabeth would have suggested that there was one too many mourners for her liking at the funeral. A very uninterested Caroline Bingley was spied yawning in the background, shivering and rolling her eyes at the Reverend Collins’s heavenly words. Jane had been delivered safely of a baby girl a few weeks prior to her mother’s passing, so Caroline and her sister and brother-in-law, Mr. and Mrs. Hurst, were already residing at Netherfield Hall, Charles and Jane’s leased manor house situated a few miles from Mr. and Mrs. Bennet’s home.

  “We’ll return to your father’s house and have a short rest.” Darcy cupped his wife’s elbow, steering her in the direction of Longbourn and to their room after the early morning burial with its damp air. “I’ll have them get a nice warm fire going for you. We’ve plenty of time before the luncheon at Netherfield.” They were staying in her old bedroom, the one she had at one time happily shared with her older sister. It was a charming reflection of both Jane’s and Lizzy’s distinct personalities—flowery wallpaper, chair flounces and pink bows alongside books, a writing desk, walking boots and stick. The drizzle of rain had thankfully stopped, leaving behind only the clouds and gloom. Lizzy nodded to her husband, and so the couple made their excuses and returned for a nap before venturing to Jane and Charles’s home.

  ***

  Relieved of her gown and ankle-length pantalets, Elizabeth scooted onto the bed and snuggled into the pillows feeling warm and cozy, her stomach finally settling down from its daily pilgrimage upward. It was such a relief knowing that she could now relax, but not so her wonderful husband. Her exhaustion, her health, her pregnancy, all were his now constant concern, often causing him sleepless nights.

  As she sipped her hot chocolate, she prattled on to him about the morning service and how kind everyone had been and about the pretty flowers. However, her speech became quieter and her words stilled completely the moment he began undressing for bed. He possessed a magnificent figur
e, the viewing of which she never tired, and his regimented routine always fascinated her. It rarely varied.

  He first loosened his neck scarf and waistcoat, then sat erectly upon a chair to remove his boots. Next he stood and unbuttoned his shirt and cuffs, careful as always to place any jewelry on the nightstand beside the bed. His waistcoat, scarf, and shirt were next removed in that order, folded and draped with the utmost care across the back of his chair. After unbuttoning his breeches, he sat at the edge of the bed and yanked them off, folded them, and laid them neatly across her old dresser.

  “Oh, bravo.” She clapped, grinning impishly.

  He turned and arched his eyebrow at her.

  “You zany scamp—you have unhinged me with your recklessness.”

  His eyebrow went somehow higher.

  “You unbuttoned your pants before you sat on the edge of the bed, and not after, as is your usual order. Such extreme behavior—whatever possessed you to such flights of abandon?”

  “Are you quite finished?” His lips twitched with humor as he lowered himself back onto the bed and let out a heartfelt sigh. “Now please be quiet. You are exhausted and need your sleep. All I ask is one uninterrupted hour, Elizabeth.”

  “Did you see who was at the grave site?”

  He groaned.

  She was snuggling farther down into the covers while motioning toward her aching back, so he slipped his hand down within her chemise and kneaded and rubbed until her tense muscles began to relax, the warmth and firmness of the back rub quickly beginning to loosen all the anxiety of the sad morning. Giving her shoulder a quick kiss when he finished, he pulled his wife’s backside against him, and they then easily fell into their normal spooning position from home, fingers intertwined together, arms laced, and hugs secured.

  “Did you hear what I asked you?”

  “Yessss.” He sighed, no immediate sleep in sight. “I imagine you are speaking of Lady Catherine and Fitzwilliam. I saw them only briefly, and they were gone before I could approach.” In truth, he felt very guilty that he had not contacted her directly during her illness, only receiving reports from Fitzwilliam and her doctors. The sight of her there today shamed him and brought to the forefront of his mind the folly of holding this grudge. Life was short, he was learning, and never to be taken for granted.