Darcy and Fitzwilliam: A Tale of a Gentleman and an Officer (14 page)

The cold wind bit viciously at the little slice of his face still exposed to the elements. He held his hat down and averted his eyes from the sting of the icy crystals that were blowing everywhere. One more blasted block to Darcy's, and he was already muttering scandalous oaths into his scarf. He heard the horses' whinny at the last minute, just in time to avoid crashing into the back of the private carriage sitting alone in the square.

His initial aggravation was soon replaced with concern for the coach's livestock.
I dearly hope this groom is sensible enough to bring his horses out of the blasted cold,
he worried. A cavalry man by trade and a country gentleman in his fondest dreams, he rated horses on the same level with few people he knew, and on a higher level than most others. He approached the man, speaking loudly to be heard over the wind.

"Excuse me, John Coachman."

The man turned a jaundiced eye toward him, only to have his demeanor dissolve into the excited wonder to which Fitzwilliam was now accustomed. "Well, bloody 'ell! I say, I say. You're 'The Waterloo Colonel,' ain't you, sir?! Let me shake your 'and, sir. Let me shake your 'and. Well, cor, what a honor this is, to be sure! Bloody 'ell!"

Nodding, Fitzwilliam firmly clasped the man's hand in both of his, saying loudly over the wind, "I don't think it wise to keep your cattle still like this for much longer. Perhaps you should walk them around for a bit."

"Imagine you takin' a interest in these poor, dumb beasts, but ain't you the finest there is. That's wot everyone says, and so it is, so it is. Don't worry yerself, Colonel, sir. 'Er ladyship will be off just as soon as the young 'un brings 'er blanket. She works the poor tib somethin' fearful. 'Ere she come now."

The older woman, a very disagreeable old tabby he recognized as being of his late mother's slight acquaintance, had snapped down the carriage window and was leaning forward, her two hands clasped on the edge. "Amanda! Attend me, you ignorant girl! Did you remember to bring my woolen shawl also? I do need my woolen shawl," she screeched. "And my fan--be quick about it, do you hear? We haven't all day!" The window on the carriage snapped upward again. Fitzwilliam turned, amused and curious now as to whom she would call so rudely, when his breath caught in his throat. The whole square suddenly hushed.

***

He recognized her instantly. Over the years he had always been eager to smile in greeting and tip his hat in the hopes they could meet; she had been his dreamlike ideal of beauty, always mysteriously vanishing before he could reach her... and now here she was in the solid form of a plain, simple, dark grey cloak and gown.

She was blindly running up behind a young girl who looked to be around Georgiana's age, a child dressed in the top stare of fashion and waiting to be handed into the coach by a distracted footman. The young woman had squeezed her eyes shut against the sleet and misjudged the distance to the young girl, colliding into her and causing them both to start a fit of giggles. The old tabby launched into yet another heated tirade.

He was unaware of how intensely he stared or how long this little scene lasted, struck senseless as he was by this elusive beauty now so close before him. She had dropped her reticule and was spinning, searching the ground, clutching at the old woman's shawl that swirled about her legs. Long, dark blonde tendrils escaped from a bonnet threatening to be blown off, and her eyes blinked against the flying, stinging ice crystals. He bent to pick up the bag lying unnoticed in the wild wind and, stepping up behind her, rested his hand gently upon her arm. Electric.

She gasped and spun around, looking first at his chest, which was eye level, and then turning her face up higher, her eyes wide with surprise. She smiled her recognition instantly. His heart stopped. When he spoke, he raised his voice over the wail of the wind. "I believe you dropped this, madam." He then warmly smiled back at her. Those huge eyes were a breathtaking almond shape, the deepest, darkest brown imaginable and innocent as a baby doe's, fringed with long, thick black lashes. Delicate dark blonde brows arched above them like willowy, graceful caterpillars. Her skin was smooth as porcelain, creamy and flushed, the rosy red tint of the freezing wind accentuating broad, high cheekbones. Her nose was not the tiny button of an English miss but strong-looking and slightly wide. He stared at her lip's full, soft moist form and nearly began to salivate, actually forgot to breathe. The whole effect was exotic, exhilarating.

Taking the bag, she nodded in thanks and was just opening her mouth to speak when a muffled threat barked from within startled her, commanding her to enter the carriage. The footman quickly approached and took her hand, forcing her to step up onto the coach steps while the driver leaned toward Fitzwilliam to apologize. "Sorry, Colonel, sir," John Coachman yelled into his ear. "'Er Royal 'ighness 'ere is in rare temper today. Let me shake your 'and again, though, sir. 'Tis a honor, sir, a honor, and one that I shall lord over me mates tonight!"

The old tabby angrily pulled the carriage door closed once the beauty was barely within and then bellowed for them to be off immediately, furious that they were scandalously late for somewhere already. John Coachman tested and secured the door, touched his hat respectfully toward the colonel, and jumped up into his seat.

Fitzwilliam stepped back as the carriage jerked forward and started moving, making a turn at the end of the square and then once again slowly crossing his path. He watched it closely, his eyes searching within, his heart pounding against his ribs when he saw she was looking directly back at him, clasping the bag to her bosom and smiling in thanks. It was her eyes that seared him, melted into him, creating an emotion that sent intense waves of heat rushing throughout his body. When the carriage moved quickly away, only the back of her bonnet showed in the window.

"Look at me, love," he whispered, willing her to turn around so he could see her again... and then she did. He had never been so affected by a woman before in his life, nor had he seen a face so beautiful and so unique and so riveting. She watched through the back window and continued staring at him until the carriage was out of sight.

It seemed then that the world around him had been sitting in a sort of muted shock, as if a new day gradually was dawning in his conscious mind. He continued his watch long after the coach passed from view. When his heart started beating again, he harrumphed and pulled his collar up to hold tightly around his neck, blowing out the breath he was suddenly aware he had been holding.

What in bloody hell was that?
He tried to shake off the emotional bond that seemed to have sparked to life between them.
This is ridiculous
, he snorted.
Too much cheap claret at lunch
. He laughed to himself, willing his nerves to somehow stop trembling. It wasn't until another carriage passed by and someone he knew called out a greeting to him that he roused himself and continued on to Darcy's.

"And where's our Little Behemoth? I hope she's not lodged herself within some doorway again." Fitzwilliam stood gratefully before the roaring fire and rubbed his raw, cold hands briskly together. Elizabeth had become very, very pregnant of late. They teased her mercilessly. She was immense.

Without raising his eyes, Darcy motioned upward with his pen, in the general direction of Lizzy's private sitting rooms. He was ensconced at his desk, surveying the reports spread upon it, reports brought to him that morning by the estate manager of his massive holding, Pemberley, in Derbyshire.

"Unfortunately, we had a bit of a disagreement at breakfast. Apparently LB is questioning the fairness of this whole pregnancy situation and at present is hosting a lively protest in her room. She and Georgiana have finished off two boxes of chocolates, a dozen scones, and are now into the peach tarts."

Fitzwilliam laughed while he turned the chair across from Darcy around and straddled it, happily accepting the coffee handed him by the butler. "Thank you very much, Winters. You are a prince among men. It is bloody freezing out there." He turned his attention back to his cousin as he sipped the hot drink. "Well, I don't mind lending my support for her escape as long as the peach tarts hold out." He tilted his chair forward to clutch an uneaten sandwich from Darcy's plate. "Perhaps you can provide us with some type of hoist."

Darcy abruptly looked up from his paperwork. "You are excessively tardy, as if that surprises me. Never tell me you've been at Wellington's all day? I thought it was only to be a breakfast meeting."

"Yes, well, it started out that way, but as usual, the breakfast meeting stretched into a chatty luncheon visit. We wasted an awful lot of time as he shaved this morning. I think the man is part ape; in fact, I'd swear to it. I could see his beard growing while I ate my Jerusalem artichokes. Put me off my feed for a while, I can tell you."

Darcy's snort served as his opinion regarding that possibility when he belatedly pulled his now empty plate back from within his cousin's reach.

"And how is his good wife?"

"An idiot. Say, Darcy..."

"I hate to admit that was my impression, also, poor dear. Still, she has some basis for her arrogance, you know, comes from very good stock, wonderful bloodlines. If she was a horse, I'd
admire
her fetlocks and the astoundingly broad fullness between her eyes. By the way, has he finished remodeling his new townhouse? I'd say he bit off a bit too much with that one. Good location, though, excellent for resale."

"Who cares? I say, Darcy..."

"Bingley heard that he's resigning his commission. Is that true? Smart move if he is. Mark my word, he'll be prime minister one day.

"Gad! Can we forget about Wellington for one moment, please? Good Lord, he puts his little breeches on one leg at a time, just like you and I. Now, try to pay attention. I wanted to ask you about that woman who lives across St. James square. You know who I mean--the old beastie with the hairy mole on her chin--lives in that house across from Aunt Catherine."

Darcy shivered in recollection. A ruder, more snobbish, social-climbing harridan did not exist in all of London. "Yes, she's lived there for years--name is Pennwalt or Pensky or Petterson. She's an absolute horror. What on earth would you want with that old woman?"

"Didn't she have a son that died a few years back? On the Hamilton yacht wasn't he... when it sank... or some such accident?" He settled his chin on his folded arms, surreptitiously eying leftover biscuits.

"Yes, I believe she did have a son who drowned, but not on the Hamilton boat." Darcy didn't bother to look up from his writing. "Sit up straight--you're going to break the legs on that chair, lurching back and forth like that! It's like having an elephant bouncing on a twig." He slapped at his cousin's hands. "And stop grabbing at my food, you thieving bastard."

Fitzwilliam grunted. "You're sounding more and more like Aunt Catherine, the older you get, did you know that? Even beginning to look a bit like her. What else do you know about the matter? I mean the hag's son."

Darcy returned to his figures. "I believe he was a baronet. He was on his way to confront a wayward wife who had left him and run off to America. His ship went down during a storm or at a blockade. I can't remember which."

"Well, I wonder who I saw, then. The woman I have seen coming and going in the square was certainly not a baronet's wife. Dresses rather plainly, and now she accompanies a young girl. Mayhap she is a governess or teacher," Fitzwilliam was muttering.

"What
are
you going on about?"

"The old tabby wouldn't have perhaps produced a beautiful daughter somehow of which you are unaware."

"She couldn't produce a beautiful anything, if I'm thinking of the same person." This interruption was causing Darcy to lose focus. Rubbing his forehead, he stared intently at his cousin. "I don't suppose you would be interested in helping me with these accounts, seeing as you are just sitting there doing nothing but annoying me?"

"Help you with accounts?" Fitzwilliam let out a hoot of laughter. "That is rich, Darcy! Really, you have the most wonderful sense of humor!" Fitzwilliam chuckled casually as he shook his head.

After a moment, Fitzwilliam pressed on, once again disturbing the silence. "Do you know if she has any visitors at the present? The beast, I mean."

With a resigned sigh, Darcy removed his spectacles, pinching his nose at the bridge. "Richard, I have no idea what goes on in this neighborhood. I can't even direct my own household." After replacing his glasses, he picked his pen back up and set to work again. "Ask Aunt Catherine if you require the latest
on-dit
."

Fitzwilliam shivered and sipped his coffee. He was very quiet, unnaturally so for him. After a few moments, an anxious Darcy looked up. "What has you asking these questions, please?" Fitzwilliam was on an extended city stay as plans were implemented for the allied armies to begin leaving Paris the following year. The prior two weeks with his brother had done little to relax him. He was ripe for trouble.

"Well, since you bring it up, I just saw that beast in her carriage, and a young woman walked over and got into it with her." Fitzwilliam smiled wistfully. "Absolutely lovely. The young woman, I mean. I have seen her before upon occasion, from afar, but never met her, never even knew where she lived. She gives one the impression of being very ethereal, very otherworldly, very foreign."

He grabbed absently at some papers on the desk, reshuffling them, replacing them gently when he realized he had ruined their order. "Sorry." He returned his hands to his knees. "She may be accompanying a young girl Georgiana's age, perhaps an acquaintance?"

A grinning Darcy leaned back in his chair, studying his cousin closely. "Shall I describe this lovely lady of yours? A dimwitted little pocket Venus--a redheaded slow top." Chuckling at his cousin's glower, he picked up his quill again.

"You are not, in any way, shape, or form, amusing, Darcy."

Darcy rolled his eyes. "Yes, well, the only trouble is that you always get bored with these silly creatures within a week, sometimes less, and then you have the problem of where to dump the bodies. And if she
is
a servant or governess or even a paid companion, that never ends up well, does it?"

Fitzwilliam opened his mouth to argue but realized that Darcy was pretty much on target. He grunted and went back to sipping his coffee. "Are you going to finish that pie?" he asked and reached for the apple tart on the side of the desk.

Darcy quickly snatched back the plate, never taking his eyes from his books. "Yes, I am going to finish that pie. Don't you have a barracks or something that provides you with food? I'm not made of money, you know."

"Are you insinuating that I take advantage of your good-natured hospitality?"

"Who's insinuating?" Darcy abruptly looked up from his paper and stared hard at his cousin. "A man your age, really, Fitz! You should have a home of your own by now. You should be over this constant need for conquests, unless you truly don't want to marry and have a family."

Fitzwilliam shifted in his seat and studiously avoided eye contact. "Well, certainly I do, Darcy. One day. Perhaps in the future. The distant future. When I am old and defenseless. Stop staring at me like that! There is no immediate rush, is there? There are so many lovely ladies I have yet to meet in the time God has allotted to me. Besides, I have little income, no home, and no immediate prospects. So, unless I can impregnate a ninety-year-old virgin heiress with a dickey heart, I am not inclined to rush the event." He put down his coffee cup on the edge of the desk and brushed off the crumbs that had been collecting throughout the morning.

Darcy rolled the quill between his fingers and looked with benign pity upon his cousin. "You should, you know. It's a wonderful feeling to be the head of your home, with a wife who adores you and whom you adore in return."

Fitzwilliam whipped out his pocket watch. "Oh, look at that. I have to run."

Ignoring him, Darcy turned his face to the fire, a besotted look in his eyes and a smile on his lips. "It's a good feeling to care for your family and their well-being. It makes you finally grow up, I can tell you." He sighed deeply and began attacking his figures once more, his mind filled with unlimited love and joy, thinking on his upcoming paternal responsibilities. "I myself find women to be unbelievably wonderful creations."

"I suppose you will continue with this treacle even as I beg you to stop."

"Well, think about it..." Darcy continued, looking up from his work.

Fitzwilliam groaned.

"They give back to you double and triple whatever little you hand them."

"I think I'm going to be ill, Darcy. Please stop."

"You hand them disparate items of food, and they give you back a wonderful meal. You provide them with four walls and a floor, and they give you back a loving home. You give them your seed," Darcy's eyes misted, his voice choked with emotion. "You give them your seed, and they give you back the most precious thing of all--a child..." They sat in silence together.

"And God help you if you give them shit." Fitzwilliam was calmly packing tobacco into his pipe, and his eyes met Darcy's for a moment. Understanding flashed between them.

"Amen to that, Cousin." Darcy crashed down to earth, quickly resuming his work.

Not to be dissuaded for long, Fitzwilliam continued. "She had a lost look to her. Perhaps she's a widow, a French war widow. She looked foreign somehow."

Struggling to suppress his grin, Darcy returned his attention to his papers. "You are incorrigible," he muttered.

"Well, I can dream, can't I? A lovely, willing young widow of a certain station is better than going off to Mrs. Cleary's house to buy a woman's affections. Don't look at me so affronted, I saw you there once. I was there myself."

"I was never there! I deny it. Anyway, I went merely for the gaming."

"Tell it to Bingley, brat; perhaps he'll believe you. I saw you myself, upstairs, entering a room with a very busty brunette, not more than six years ago. I was briefly in on leave and not about to go yelling your name down the hallway."

The wind taken from his sails and shamefully red-faced, Darcy shrugged in annoyance.

"Well, it is true that a man does have certain needs." Darcy glanced up briefly.

Fitzwilliam sat back, restless and eager to be doing something. "Besides, widows are so damn grateful..."

Darcy let out an aggravated yowl, "You have no conscience to speak of, do you?"

"Well, what should I do? I will more than likely never marry. I'm not about to go ruin some eighteen-year-old debutante. Then the older they are, the more desperate their ploys. You could be trapped with someone you wouldn't want to spend five minutes with, let alone your entire life."

Fitzwilliam raked his hands through his hair several times, leaving its appearance wildly on end. It was thick and unruly and tended to go its own merry way once its morning duty was over. "You know, I am rather disappointed at your attitude toward me, as well as offended," he huffed. "You do owe me some gratitude, brat. I was, after all, your example in polite society, your role model, as it were, especially with the ladies."

Darcy stared at him in disbelief, the fighting anger just as strong at that moment as it had been when they were ten and eight years old.

"
Role model?!
You farted on my head."

"You peed in my face!"

They glowered at each other for several seconds.

"Apparently we have a stalemate here, relative to degrees of bad behavior. In the interest of family harmony, however, I will concede the peeing was worse than the farting."

"Thank you, Darcy. Damn big of you."

Fitzwilliam again picked up his coffee cup. "Getting back to our subject," the professor continued, "married women are, of course, also quite acceptable..."

Darcy slammed his hand down on the desk and gave Fitzwilliam another warning look.

"Well, they are! But they tend to have angry, pistol-holding husbands, and that can sometimes be very tricky. Now on the other hand," Fitzwilliam continued with a gleam in his eye, his brows waggling, "widows have experience, and if they have attained a certain station in life, they rarely wish to remarry. They are generally well-bred and can converse with a man, and by thankful, I mean thankful for the attention, not the other, you lout."

Darcy was still shaking his head in disbelief.

"All right, maybe they are grateful for the other. The ones I've entertained certainly have been ecstatic." Fitzwilliam beamed, wallowing in his memories.

"I would ban you from my house if I thought for a moment you would pay any attention. Get your coffee cup off my desk, you are making a mark." Darcy picked up his pen to write again, noticing the tart was missing. "And quit eating my food!"

After a few minutes of silence Darcy finished his work and began to blot the ink. "So, you are hoping for an introduction to this pretty-faced, eager, young cork brain--is that the gist of what you're saying?" Darcy looked up to see a surprised expression on Fitzwilliam's face.