Darcy and Fitzwilliam: A Tale of a Gentleman and an Officer (13 page)

"Something else is bothering you--out with it."

"What if there are twins in there?" Darcy shook his head. "She's so big, much larger than I had imagined she would be at this point. But mayhap it is because she's such a tiny thing. I don't know anymore. The proportions appear all off to me. And her delivery is not until sometime at the end of January." He sighed heavily. "At any rate, do not forget about Georgiana's debut and presentation. That will require Elizabeth and me to reside in London from before Christmas and then throughout the entire social season."

"I
have
been trying to forget. Georgiana cannot be ready yet for this. I'm not ready yet for this."

"She can, and she is. She and her maid have already arrived in London, and she's commenced shopping. From what I have heard, she and Elizabeth are planning a major campaign. To them, we go to London for the dressmaker, not for childbirth. It's a good thing I'll be there to keep Elizabeth in check, or she'll be wielding that immense body of hers around every shop in town. As Georgiana's other guardian, you will be expected to be on hand for the presentation at court and the presentation balls and Almack's, so save some leave time for then, also. One must never forget Almack's."

Fitzwilliam threw down his napkin and pushed back his chair. "Well, evidently I'll be using a lot more time this year than I had anticipated. I do have it coming, unfortunately, so that should not be a problem. Surely, though, you will want to present her at court yourself alone?" He looked hopefully at Darcy. "You are, after all, her closest male relative."

"Forget it, Richard. We will jointly have that pleasure. As her co-guardian, I would not think of depriving you of this bliss."

Fitzwilliam smiled evilly.

"I've just had a delightful thought. Do you realize, Cousin, that if our baby girl is not successful in her first season, if she does not snag a prospective suitor, if she is not married by next year, you will have to go through the whole season again, Almack's and everything, and without me. I'll be in Paris with the returning army of occupation."

"Black-hearted bastard," Darcy mumbled to his cousin's retreating back and finished off the last of the coffee.

***

Leaving Rosings had been harder on Lizzy than she could ever have imagined three weeks before, let alone two years ago.

Once Darcy and Lizzy had entered the carriage, Darcy called up to his driver, "Henry, take your time going home. I'm bound that we're going to enjoy this solitude." He settled himself back into the seat and pulled Lizzy to him, resting her back on his chest for support then, finally beginning to relax, he stretched long legs out to the seat across from them, and they took off toward home.

They rode for a long time in silence, his cheek resting on top of her head, his arms encircling her and holding her close. "This could go on forever, and I wouldn't mind," she whispered sleepily.

Her back didn't hurt for once, and her feet weren't too swollen. She was in heaven. He kissed the top of her head and rested his cheek there again. Both of them closed their eyes to the rest of the world.

"Oh, William, in all the excitement last night, I forgot to tell you something." He groaned a little in reply, preferring his drift into unconsciousness to conversation.

"You will never guess who came to see us the day you escorted Father home." He barely heard her voice. The carriage was rocking like a cradle, and he was half asleep and half awake. "Caroline Bingley."

The name slowly made its way into his brain but elicited no impression for several seconds. Suddenly, his eyes popped open.

"Who did you say?" He attempted to sound casual.

"Caroline. Caroline Bingley." Lizzy giggled at the memory of the beast's meeting with Lady Catherine. "I imagine she actually wanted to see you but had to settle for Aunt Catherine, Anne, and me." Darcy's heart began pounding, his voice trying to remain steady.

"What did she have to say for herself?" he asked.

"Nothing too much. At first I was horrified having both Caroline and Aunt Catherine alone in a room with me, but believe me, it wasn't long before Caroline was being eviscerated by Aunt Catherine." Lizzy gave a delighted chuckle, any attempt at pretending indifference being long forgotten.

"I'm sorry to be so gleeful about it, but it was truly a sight to behold, watching someone else being attacked by your aunt. I have the distinct impression either Aunt Catherine is completely dotty or she is the slyest fox in the henhouse."

"More than likely it's a combination of both." Darcy closed his eyes, trying not to panic. It didn't sound as if Caroline had said anything to her. He should have just told Lizzy the truth about Netherfield, saving himself from another lie.
I can tell her everything later,
he reasoned,
after the baby is here.

"She didn't give any explanation for a visit though?" he asked.

"No. I truly think that Aunt Catherine had her so confused that she completely forgot what she was about." Darcy smiled, relieved that Caroline's deception and his visit to her were still unknown to Lizzy.

"That's the first time I heard you call her Aunt Catherine instead of Lady Catherine." He kissed her head again and rested his chin on it. "I think we are making real progress."

"I'm feeling more part of the family every day. After ten or twenty years, I shall be right at home in all this luxury."

"Get some sleep, will you? I need the rest." He pushed his hat down over his eyes and closed them, letting his thoughts ruminate.
Why in the world had Caroline come all that way? What could she have up her sleeve?
He began drifting deeper and deeper into unconsciousness.

"By the way"--Lizzy's voice sounded groggy--"where is my mother's locket? I should like to be wearing it when I have the baby."

His eyes opened with a shock. The locket! Oh, dear merciful God in heaven, he didn't have the locket. He had left it at Netherfield and never returned.

"William? Are you sleeping?" He didn't answer her and remained very still. "I'll pester you tomorrow," she murmured and was soon snoring softly. Darcy, however, was not going to sleep any time soon.

Here's forty shillings on the drum,

For those that volunteer to come,

With shirts, and clothes, and present pay,

Then o'er the hills and far away.

O'er the hills and o'er the main,

Through Flanders, Portugal, and Spain,

King George commands and we obey,

Over the hills and far away.

Hark! Now the drums beat up again,

For all true soldier gentlemen,

Then let us 'list and march I say,

Over the hills and far away.

--Traditional soldiers' song, Peninsular Wars

Fighting a brutal and sudden gust of frigid November wind, Colonel Richard Fitzwilliam was making slow headway in his march across Mayfair, advancing doggedly toward the townhouse of his cousin, Fitzwilliam Darcy. Onlookers not distracted by their freezing extremities saw a tall, broad, and very familiar soldier passing by them. Hunched shoulders beneath a nearly floor-length, battered military greatcoat, muscular legs resembling tree trunks encased in scruffy military knee boots, gloved hands grappling at the cloak's broken neck closure. This pathetic excuse for an ensemble was topped off by a large, dark bicorn hat that had been pulled low and was plain and battered, absent of fancy feathers or brass.

Bent against the cold and sleet, he was presently lost in thought, having just left his general's home. It was November 11, 1817, and Colonel Fitzwilliam was returning from a disturbing morning meeting with Arthur Wellesley, the Duke of Wellington--his mentor, commanding officer, and dear friend.

"Halloo, Colonel!" someone yelled from a passing coach, a stranger to whom Fitzwilliam automatically raised his arm in response, smiling pleasantly and nodding. Two gentlemen passing by noticed this and boldly approached him, insisting on introducing themselves when they realized who he was. They pressed their cards into his hands and, winking broadly, hinted that they would do right by him if he would merely endorse one of their enterprises, lend his name to one of their products, or if he would allow them to use his likeness in any way. He smiled politely, as he always did, saying he would certainly consider their requests, and then excused himself to move on, pulling his collar up higher and his hat lower, ostensibly against the cold.

It had been like this for the two years since Wellington's Anglo-allied army's magnificent victory at Waterloo, and still the city of London was mad with patriotic fervor, and Richard's valor having long since elevated him to the lofty status of celebrity. For several years now, the military's every battle, their wounds, and even in some instances their deaths, had been liberally seasoned with florid prose then served up by the daily news sheets as entertainment. Animated discussions on every corner encouraged opinions to flow as freely as wine, thereby enriching the dreariness of the baker's and the blacksmith's lives, alleviating the tedium of the shopkeeper or the farmer.

It was the Battle of Waterloo that propelled him into this truly legendary status. Stories in the daily papers immediately after his return had revealed his wounding and heroic struggle to survive amidst the onslaught of barbaric French soldiers swooping in for the kill of this high-ranking British officer. That the story, as it now was told--told and retold and told again some eighteen months after the fact--bore little resemblance to the reality of the event... well, that seemed irrelevant to the editors.

Devotees called out to him from windows, from passing horses and carriages, or as he lounged within the gentlemen's clubs. It made no sense to him at all. He was the same man who had spent ten years living like an animal in Portuguese and Spanish mud, often grudgingly caught in the reflected glory of being one of Wellesley's favored officers. Then, shortly after Waterloo and his highly publicized heroics, he returned home to a frenzied reception.

***

He squinted through the sleet to check for carriages prior to his crossing, wondering if the adoring masses would be as impressed were it known that a moment of abysmally poor judgment had him fighting alongside his men that fateful day, that a military blunder on his own part had caused his beloved horse to be shot out from under him. Stupidly caught by a sudden French cavalry charge, he was a very high-ranking officer trapped in the wrong place at the wrong time, then tossed into the bloodlust of battle. It was the reason officers stayed remote, far back from the fighting, a dictum he had failed to follow. "Kill the head and the body will die," common knowledge in warfare. It was his misjudgment to have lingered so long near the front, and his lovely Domina was brought down, pinning him beneath her and crushing his leg.

"Hold square! Hold square!" He roared the command to his men as he lay injured on the open field before them. His officers defied that order, a first for them, and had run out to drag him back within their square to safety, completely ignoring his threats of courts martial. He never did follow through on those threats, musing that they had all fought to save each other that day, not for patriotism. Over and over he fired the rifle that had been unceremoniously thrust into his hand, a rifle grabbed from a dead soldier, eventually ending up slashing and butchering blindly with its bayonet. The French soldiers kept coming for him, and too many of his men, his band of brothers, thieves, and drunks as they were, had been injured or killed trying to defend him.
If I told the masses that I had to piss into the barrel of the rifle in order to clean it, would they still be so enthralled with the story? Oh yes, Fitzwilliam, you're a regular Lord Nelson.

He waved in his good-natured manner to another well-wisher then hurriedly turned a corner, momentarily relaxing his shoulders a bit, protected from the storm by a large building. Now that there was relative peace in Europe and a new world order on the horizon, he would need to decide what to do with the rest of his life--whether to stay in the army or resign his commission, work for Wellington at the Board of Ordnance. It was a hard decision either way.

Staying with the status quo would mean continuing in a peacetime army and a lifestyle within which he no longer felt comfortable, a lifestyle of loose women, drinking and carousing, and avoiding the responsibilities of adult life. He paused in his steps for a moment, forgetting just why any of that was so bad, and then continued on, laughing softly.

Then again... he could follow his mentor, work on the Board... well, that would necessitate embroiling himself in political infighting and backstabbing. Rather like battling the Frogs but with better meals and no honor. And he knew Wellington. Wellington was ambitious, ruthless really, and would not stop until he was made prime minister. The man was obsessively victory driven. It was the main thing he admired in his friend and a character trait they shared in common.

Then again... he could return home and fight twenty-four hours a day with his wretched older brother, Regis.

Any of the choices before him made him want to gag or get good and drunk.

***

Another shout out came from a group of young Corinthians racing by in their phaetons. "Whoo! Hoo! Well done, Colonel!" "Capital fellow!" "Come have a drink with us!!" He smiled vaguely then winced as one phaeton slid sideways on the ice, almost toppling itself and nearly injuring the precious horses.
Goddamn stupid idiots
, he thought as he smiled and waved. They righted themselves soon enough and laughed uproariously at their own daring.

The wind was kicking up more now, and it was biting cold.
Bloody hell, did Darcy move his goddamn house? I don't remember it being this far of a walk.
He should not have told his batman to go home and get warm so that he could continue alone and think.
Thinking is highly overrated
he decided as he stomped his feet while awaiting traffic.
I'm going to freeze my fucking balls off if I don't...
"Ladies..." Smiling warmly, he bowed and tipped his hat, flirting outrageously with the three giggling lovelies who slowed their pace as they walked by, whispering and staring back at him as they did. His spirits rose considerably when they spun around to follow him.

There definitely was an upside to fame.

The sad truth was that the one thing he really would have wanted to do with his life was the one thing that he could not. In his heart of hearts, Fitzwilliam wanted nothing more than to be a simple country squire. He wanted to work the soil, chop trees, and visit his tenants. He wanted to read and actually understand cattle and crop reports, or bicker over terms with tradesmen. He wanted a quiet, neat little home and the chance to doze off in a chair in his own garden, after he'd had a good pipe and glass of port. He wanted to smell the daisies handed to him by an adorable little moppet daughter, and to teach a son to ride a pony and how to fish. He wanted an innocent, demure, quiet, and biddable heiress wife, a shy lady who would be a model of English propriety by day and a whore for him in his bedroom by night. He sighed and grunted at his own foolishness.

After all, he had no money of his own.

He was a well-bred English second son.

***

He also was thirty-two years old and had spent the first blush of his young manhood sitting in mud and worried about getting enough food for his troops. Enough food and enough blankets, bullets, boots, horses, etc. Scavenging and stealing had occupied much of any time not spent in battle or being blind drunk, and the years had just slipped away. To his mind, he was too old now to start afresh, had no home of his own and no income. Of course, he could ask his father for any amount of money his heart desired, but he could not and would not take advantage of a man he so respected. He was back to wondering what to do with the remainder of his life. Most second and third sons could be assured of benevolence from the firstborn who inherited all; however, once his father was gone, he was certain Regis would cut him off without a farthing. They hated the sight of each other.

He truly should plan for the future, but not today.

Well, I have finally struck bottom,
he suddenly realized.
I am wandering the streets, destitute, lost and homeless, and waxing maudlin. I'll be sobbing on some poor bastard's neck soon, drunk as a lord. If I am very lucky, perhaps Darcy will adopt me
.

A gentleman slapped him on the shoulder. "Good show! Good show!" the man exclaimed then planted himself squarely in Fitzwilliam's path. "I say, Colonel, may I call you Dick? Excellent! My, you're a tall one, aren't you? How's the weather up there, what? Ha! Ha! Dick, did you happen to know my cousin? Major Billy Hench? Average height, light hair. Oh, surely you knew him. He was at Waterloo, also, and made quite a show for himself there."

Fitzwilliam stared down at the diminutive man, expecting a little more information, and when it wasn't forthcoming, he decided he would speed things up a bit.

"Excuse me, sir. Was your cousin also with the Coldstream Guards?"

"No, he was with the 72nd. To tell the truth, he did not actually see much action in the battle, per se, but he did attend the Duke of Richmond's rout the night before. Surely you were there yourself! No? Are you certain? But my dear Dick, you must be mistaken. It was
the
place to be, I am told! It's quite a humorous story, actually; he became frightfully drunk and nearly missed the whole fracas. Got in the game rather late in the day, I'm afraid. Oh, I am certain you must have met him--he wore a red uniform jacket with black boots."

Oh my God, some people should just be drowned at birth.
Fitzwilliam smiled down politely at the eager gentleman. "I don't recall meeting him, sir, but I am certain I heard about his bravery. If you will excuse me, I must be going. I am late for an important meeting. Good afternoon."
Thank God this bloody war is behind me.

***

Truth be told, though, the war years were not completely behind Fitzwilliam, whether he acknowledged it or not. Unknown to his friends and even to some of his family, Fitzwilliam had been experiencing the aftermaths of war--battle fatigue and its accompanying nightmares, flashbacks, and panic seizures.

The more these symptoms plagued him, the deeper he fell into his old cycle from the years before--drinking, women, and gambling--until he himself was becoming aware of the adverse effect it was having on his physical, as well as mental, health.

The tide turned upon one comment from his beloved aunt Catherine. "
Character is revealed in the dark, Richard.
"

Damn old bat.

The remark had struck home. He knew his dark had become more and more appalling, possessing moments he would be loath to have exposed to the world, behavior of which he had become deeply ashamed.

One day he would open up to Darcy. He knew that a day would come eventually, probably during a drunken weekend and after several bottles of whiskey, and maybe then he could begin to confront the demons that tormented him.

He wanted so to have better life.

He wanted so to be a better man.