Saints and Sinners
Page 1
Saints and Sinners
Darcy and Fitzwilliam, Book 4
Karen V. Wasylowski
Contents
Also By…
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Epilogue
Epilogue Part Deux
Book List
Copyright © 2019 by Karen V. Wasylowski
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Also By…
Pride and Prejudice
By Jane Austen
By Karen V. Wasylowski
Darcy and Fitzwilliam, Book One
The Pride and Prejudice Family Saga
* * *
Sons and Daughters, Book Two
The Pride and Prejudice Family Saga
* * *
Wives and Lovers, Book Three
The Pride and Prejudice Family Saga
* * *
Saints and Sinners, Book Four
The Pride and Prejudice Family Saga
* * *
All books can be read stand-alone or as a series
Available in both ebook and print form on…
Amazon, Nook, And other sites
For my wonderful husband, Richard
The Saint to my Sinner
“Every Saint has a Past;
And, every Sinner a Future”
- Oscar Wilde
Chapter 1
The Death of a Prince
1861
Lord Richard Fitzwilliam was resting near the fireside at his favorite Gentlemen’s Club, Brooks, awaiting both tea and the arrival of his cousin Fitzwilliam Darcy, when the muffled bells of St. Paul’s Cathedral began to toll. Again. It was a solemn place this cold morning, the men around him uncharacteristically subdued – men he’d supported and opposed in Parliament, men with whom he’d fought, laughed, and worked his entire life. Servants wearing black armbands shuffled around silently, covering mirrors in black cloth, stopping clocks.
Bong. Bong. Bong. He moaned, his hand going up to his throbbing forehead – those damn bells had been clanging for hours. He hadn’t heard such a commotion… well, for years. Not since Princess Charlotte’s death in ‘17.
Or was it in ’23?
Or, was her name Caroline?
Oh, the hell with it.
It was the 15th of December,1861 and His Royal Highness, Prince Albert of Saxe-Coburg and Gotha (Francis Albert Augustus Charles Emmanuel, 26 August 1819 – 14 December 1861), husband and consort of Queen Victoria, was dead.
Puffing on his forbidden pipe, Fitzwilliam stared deeply into the fire. Well, there you have it. The longer I live the more I realize there is neither rhyme nor reason to life, or death. A man such as Albert – a man given to measured, thoughtful behavior – is gone at forty-two, while I continue to drink, smoke and eat like a newly released galley slave. Experiencing a sudden and unwelcome swell of emotion, he swiped away a stray tear and cursed the sentimentality that had possessed his golden years.
Golden. Ha! That’s rich. If these are Golden Years where is my Amanda – taken from me so young? It’s damned unfair, I tell you. If only I could see her beautiful, innocent, perfect face once again I’d give her a tongue lashing for dying on me she’d not soon forget.
At a nearby table a man sneezed violently and woke himself. “What… what in heaven’s name was that fearful noise?” He looked anxiously about the room. “What’s happened now?”
“Ghastly business. Someone sent back the turtle soup and Chef killed himself. Yes. Bullet right between the eyes. Awful mess I hear. Eyeball plopped smack into the souffle.”
“My God, that is dreadful! Who’ll do afternoon tea now?”
“Prepared it just before he done himself in – a matter of honor, you see.”
“Thank heaven for that.”
“Pity it woke you from your nap though, Bagshawe.”
“No, no, no, no, no. I never nap. In fact, I am of the view that excessive rest is bad for one, Fitzwilliam. Yes. Always best, I say, to keep oneself active physically as well as mentally, encourages a dynamic mind, and…” The man was snoring before his sentence ended.
“Sweet dreams.” Fitzwilliam checked his pocket watch for the third time. Darcy would be arriving soon, more than likely finishing up his daily five-mile walk. That couldn’t be healthy for someone of their age, could it? It was all Fitzwilliam could do to sit upright at the edge of his bed and piss into a chamber pot when he awoke, let alone walk upright.
Seeing Bagshawe begin to slump Fitz leaned over to straighten his snoring neighbor. The fellow’s head hit the table anyway. “Oops. Sorry. Can’t say I didn’t try. Think I like you better this way, Lionel; at least your snoring’s stopped.”
What’s that? Why am I here you ask? Well, here’s the thing. I’m waiting for my cousin, Fitzwilliam Darcy. Excellent fellow – when he isn’t preaching at me the way he does, on and on, all the time, ‘Why so negative, Richard? You yourself can choose how you feel each day, either joy or sadness, Richard. Try and see the bright side of things, Richard.’ Bollocks, to that. All I know is a good man has died, a family has lost its father, and my country has lost its head of state. Although… mourning will probably cancel Christmas festivities this year as well. Hmm. Perhaps there really is a bright side to everything. “Hate to mention it, Bagshawe, but you’re beginning to drool a bit.”
Truth was, the family feared Fitzwilliam was becoming something of a recluse in his old age. Lonely. Remote. It was even suggested that perhaps he find an unsuspecting widow and remarry; that without feminine companionship he was becoming a grumpy old soul. Well, grumpier than usual.
Rubbish. I’m no grumpier than I was before, and I will beat to death anyone who claims otherwise. Wait, that doesn’t sound right. Besides, who could ever consider him lonely? He was bossed about by eleven interfering young people – his own offspring plus the three children of his cousin – and, add to that bothersome mix all those wild grandchildren underfoot. No, he’d grant them he might be irritable at times, even a bit short-tempered (obviously with good reason) but, never lonely. In fact, there was no room left for another person in his life. Not one more living soul.
Unless.
Unless he could convince his sons – (even the priest at this point) – to present him with a male heir for the family title. By God, that would be one little hellion he’d welcome in a heartbeat…
From out of nowhere a cane smacked his knee. “Ow! Who in hell – Oh, I should have known it was you, Darcy. You’ve nearly broken my leg!”
“Stuff and nonsense. If your leg could survive a horse falling on it at W
aterloo I’m certain it can survive a walking stick.”
“I had different legs back then.”
“No, they just weren’t so fat back then. You’ve grown soft, admit it. Or don’t. Good heavens, look at that face. Should I ask how we are today, Fitz?”
“We are shite, Darcy. And would you please stop smiling.”
“I will cease smiling if you cease scowling.” Darcy smoothed the jacket of his dark blue three-piece suit (the latest in fashion) as he sat, then brushed off his ‘creased’ trousers (another fashion first). “Your facial expressions will spoil my appetite. Medusa presented a more pleasant aspect.”
“Hell to be you then. What are you wearing? You look like a street performer.”
“My new suit.” He motioned for the waiter to bring him coffee. “Are we done with the clever banter? Good. Because, I have news concerning my daughter, Anne Marie, and her husband, Jamie, and your son, Andrew. The Duke of Sutherland and I met this morning during my walk in the park.”
“Never tell me. It is war then.” Fitzwilliam’s blood ran cold at the thought. His son, Andrew, newly appointed Captain of the HMS Orontes in the Royal Navy, was already sailing to Canada due to a threat of imminent war with America.
Tensions had begun in November with the capture by an American naval vessel – the San Jacinto – of a British mail ship that had given passage to a Confederate delegation crossing the Atlantic in search of European support for their side in the war between the states. To the British this seizure of their ship in open waters was a clear violation of international law. And, as luck would have it, Anne Marie and Jamie Durand, Darcy’s daughter and her husband, had been visiting relatives in Canada when all transatlantic traffic came to a halt.
“What? No, calm yourself, let me explain. It seems war has been averted. You know that Prince Albert, God rest his soul, had stepped into the negotiations two weeks ago? Well, evidently that action helped turn the tide as they say; his words effectively calming the rhetoric and diffusing the more volatile anger. Sutherland claims to have no idea how Palmerston’s angry missive meant for the Americans made its way to the Prince first–”
“Good to hear. Darcy, are you having coffee?”
“Fitzwilliam, do you ever hear me out until the end?”
“Yes… sometimes; but, the truth of it is you do go on and on about things and at my age it is sometimes difficult to stay awake throughout. I don’t suppose you could just come to the point?”
“Oh, all right. His intervention has been successful. Prince Albert I mean. Sutherland has been assured by the War Office that the worst of the tension is over, and hopefully the blockade is to be lifted soon. My daughter can return home by late January, her children will be over the moon, and Elizabeth and I can have our quiet life returned. Most importantly, your son will not be sailing into war.”
“Thank heavens for that. God bless Prince Albert. To think he was so ill during it all and none of us knew.”
“Yes. I wonder how many realize what a great loss his passing will be to our country. He was Her Majesty’s rock, her strength. She depended upon him for everything, both in their private life and with affairs of state.”
“Selfish of me to say this, I know, but I pray Albert’s passing will not rescind the truce.”
“No, it won’t, I’m certain of it. Mr. Lincoln was heard to comment the Americans should fight only one war at a time; and, at present, they’re fully occupied.”
“A quarrelsome lot, those people – I know, I married one.”
“And the luckiest thing that ever happened to you.”
“I agree completely. Well, with everyone flooding back into the city for one reason or the other this year you certainly won’t be having the big family Christmas in Derbyshire. Such a pity.”
“Then why are you grinning?”
“Stomach gas probably.”
“Sorry to disappoint but Christmas is my favorite time of year to be with the people I love most in the world, my wife, our children, our grandchildren, your children and grandchildren, our sisters, our nieces and nephews. Even you. We shall merely celebrate on a smaller scale, here in town. The place where we gather doesn’t matter, it’s the joy of being together that counts.”
“Charming. Let me know how you all get on.”
“Oh no. Not this year, Fitz. England has lost its Prince, we have been precipitously close to war again with America, my daughter is halfway around the world, her children in my home crying themselves to sleep each night from worry, and your son is commanding a battleship sailing into enemy waters. You are going to celebrate the birth of our Lord Jesus Christ this year or I’ll beat you senseless.”
Fitzwilliam grunted over the bowl of his pipe. “Well, when you sweet talk me like that, how can I refuse?”
Chapter 2
By the third day after Prince Albert’s passing every mirror and lamp in the nation had been covered, blinds drawn, the city silent. Mourning black was everywhere – ribbons, wreaths, iron fences, doors, even the shining brass plates outside homes were shrouded. Omnibus drivers tied scraps of crepe to their whips.
Seemingly overnight there had emerged a public demand for mugs, plates, cartouches – anything and everything as long as it was emblazoned with Albert’s image. Photographic carte-de-visites of the Prince – 70,000 in all – were sold within a week of his death.
Then, of course, there was mourning fashion to purchase, de rigueur among the socially minded, as well as for their entire household staff. Aristocrats insisted upon being seen dressed in the most elegant costumes created by English couturier, Charles Frederick Worth, from the new world of ‘fashion design’.
Special material for these fashions was insisted upon as well – a lucrative bit of snobbery for Jay’s London General Mourning Warehouse in Oxford Circus.
And, although Darcy and Fitzwilliam profited tremendously from investments in the textile mills producing those materials, owned jointly by Darcy son-in-law Jamie Durand and his brother Alex, he would gladly give up all those profits – all he had in the world in fact – to have his beloved daughter, Anne Marie, returned safely to him; and, more importantly, to her worried children.
Lost in these thoughts during his morning stroll he failed to notice how the snow flurries were increasing or that the temperature was dropping – it was fast becoming the coldest December in years – or, that a strange carriage was parked on the street before his home.
Darcy’s groom saw his master approach and tipped his hat in greeting. “G’day to ye, sir.”
“Jeffers, didn’t see you. Good day to you as well.”
Shoulders hunched against the wind Jeffers hurried forward to open the large iron front gate, freshly painted in black. “Looks like we’re in fer it, sir.”
“Good heavens, it really is shaping up to be quite a storm, isn’t it? You must be freezing, man. Why aren’t you inside with a hot chocolate?”
“Didn’t want t’leave this fellow alone out ‘ere, sir. ‘ired cabby. Poor lad’s been waitin’ for them what’s inside ‘bout an hour now.”
“Oh, I see. Well, this won’t do; shelter the cattle in our stable while I see who’s visiting. You can take the driver downstairs as well, get you both something warm to eat and drink from cook.”
“Thank ‘e, sir. That I will, sir.”
Who could have shown up now? People Darcy hadn’t seen in years were returning to the city either to attend upcoming memorials planned for Prince Albert, or they were concerned by Parliament’s threats of war with America. London would certainly be crowded this Christmas holiday; however, there would be no large parties, no private balls, no concerts… so, why were they all gravitating to his house?
Before he even reached the door, the under-butler had it open and Darcy hurried inside. “Ah, thank goodness for the ever-vigilant Brendan.”
“Good afternoon, sir.” It was not until he spoke that Darcy noticed his aged head butler, Winters, was sitting in the foyer as well. “Sorry th
at I cannot stand at the moment, sir. No disrespect meant.”
Darcy handed his coat, hat and gloves to a footman. “Don’t be ridiculous. Winters, what am I going to do with you? Now, listen to me, it is beyond time you allow me to contact a physician about your knees. I know you’re not overly fond of the medical profession – no one is – but, they do have their occasional uses.”
“I thought we’d give it another week or so, Mr. Darcy, if you do not mind. Perhaps once the damp weather clears?”
“He can barely stand at all, sir.”
The under-butler’s unsolicited comment was met with a glare from Winters. “That is quite enough from you, child.”
“Yes, father – I mean Mr. Winters.”
Darcy tried to keep the smile from his face. The ‘child’ was fifty years old, the father well into his eighties.
“Tell Mr. Darcy about the visitors, boy.”
“I was about to…” Brendan closed his eyes in exasperation before he spoke. “Mr. Darcy, you have visitors.”
“Yes, I gathered as much when I saw the hired cab out front. If I remember, Mrs. Darcy said something about one of the Welsh Bennet’s arriving in town this week, though I don’t recall which.” At the far end of the hall the door of the drawing room opened and Mrs. Darcy herself peeked out. Even after so many years the sight of her sent a warm thrill through him. Lizzy was his joy. “And, there she is.”
With her brightest hostess smile in place she turned to whisper something to whomever was in the room behind her then closed the door. Immediately, her smile vanished; she nearly ran down the hallway to greet him.
“Elizabeth, whatever is the matter?”
“Thank goodness you’re here, you will not believe what’s happened.” She cupped his cheek with her hand. “Heavens, you look dreadful.”