Karen Wasylowski - Darcy and Fitzwilliam - A Tale of a Gentleman and an Officer

“I locked myself in this room and cried for hours, the poor servants terrified I would do something rash. My butler, Bascome, sent word to Amanda, and she immediately came.

“I unlocked the door, and she walked in as I threatened to kill myself. I was extremely dramatic in those days.” He laughed softly at the memory, rubbing a hand over his eyes. “ Dios mio , but she was angry with me! By that time, she knew the truth about my life, had lectured me to death about it, and still does, I might add. She was quite forthright with me, saying I was behaving dangerously and that I would soon be exposed by my behavior. She was patient but firm.” He sighed deeply and smiled for a moment.

“I believe it was his mother who prodded Augustus into suing for sole custody of the child, considering Amanda an encumbrance. He accused her of kidnapping their child when she returned to America to nurse her father. Eventually he applied to parliament to sever any privileges she might have. He was actually on his way to America to claim his son when his ship went down.

“It was not until her return to England that she was informed she had lost custody of her child. She was told to either leave the child immediately or risk being imprisoned.

“Well, the child became so hysterical that the mother-in-law had to relent, allowing her to remain. That is where she stands today, a sort of tenant at sufferance, a poor relation. If her mother-in-law even suspects that she has interest in another man, she will consider it a final insult to her son and throw Amanda out.”

After a long time sitting in silence, both staring into the fireplace, Fitzwilliam relit his pipe, stood, and walked toward the windows. It appeared that in a matter of days his universe had changed focus, centering now upon one exasperating but adorable young woman. He resented the people who had laughed and taunted her, evaluated her unfairly, and found her wanting.

And they would never accept Amanda or any other person without the requisite familial associations, proper ancestry, certainly would never acknowledge someone whose family had physically worked to provide hearth and home, even a physician and teacher as her father had been.

“You know, Anthony, I have begun to yearn for a home and a spouse, children.” He puffed on his pipe absently. “I had actually meant to properly court Amanda toward an eventual offer for her hand.” He shook his head sadly.

“No, she would never leave her son, Colonel, not even for you, and she would think a liaison the height of sinfulness. What a coil. You would have made a good husband for her.”

“Who said I won’t marry her?”

Anthony’s lips twitched a little. “Ah, you perhaps also have difficulties with the English language? I seem to have just wasted an inordinate amount of time and energy explaining why she will never marry.”

“I must have missed that. All I heard is that she won’t leave her son, perfectly natural and understandable. I simply won’t ask it of her, but we shall marry.”

At a loss for words, Anthony began to laugh, shaking his head in mild amazement.

They sat for quarter of an hour listening to a gentle rain outside before Fitzwilliam spoke again. “You know I had a similar conversation to this not long ago. My God, was it only weeks ago I swore that I would never marry, that it was something that held no interest for me? What a pompous ass I am.”

Anthony grinned devilishly, and Fitzwilliam cocked one eyebrow in mock hauteur. “May I know the reason for your amusement, sir?”

“I hope I do not offend you; however, I cannot but wish you had a brother I could meet.”

Fitzwilliam’s eyes wrinkled in humor, and he turned to his new friend. “Well, actually, I do have a brother, and we have been wondering why he has no interest in marriage and in producing the requisite heir. I wonder…”

“Is all well, your lordship?” The ancient butler, who had fallen asleep in Anthony’s chair, attempted to rise as his master walked into the bedroom’s dressing room.

“Sit, Bascome, rest. Why don’t you pour us both a drink? I have quite an enjoyable tale to tell you.” Anthony allowed his valet to help him shrug out of his jacket.

“I am very sorry that your lordship’s friend left in such an agitated state.”

“Who? Sir Edmund? Oh, do not concern yourself, old friend. I believe he will return.” He leaned down to take the brandy snifter. “I have a good feeling about him.”

“What of the colonel, sir? They have told me he showed great promise. Perhaps…?”

Anthony laughed as his valet undid his cravat. “Regretfully, no, Bascome, his interests quite literally lie elsewhere, shall we say?”

“More is the pity. He reminded me so much of our late Master Mario.” Anthony nodded and smiled wistfully, lighting up another cigarillo, then sat down to tell his old friend the tale of Amanda and Richard.

On the following morning, Sunday morning, Fitzwilliam felt terribly hung over but remarkably more optimistic, having identified his true enemy. Instead of the dashing Spanish aristocrat he had so feared, he found that the biggest obstacle to his future happiness appeared to be a social-climbing, elderly society matron. The Beast. The mother of Amanda’s late husband, Augustus, was tough as steel and bitter from her loss. Upon further reflection, he decided he might have preferred the Spanish aristocrat.

It was the last Sunday before advent, and the carillon bells announcing early morning mass rang out high above ancient St. James Chapel. The streets were bustling with Spanish Place street vendors, shouting out their raucous greetings to one and all as they loaded their carts, readying themselves for the journey across to Covent Garden. Former soldiers warmed themselves around sputtering campfires, comparing war stories and wounds, exchanging bawdy remarks with the evening ladies who were finally making their exhausted way home.

Fitzwilliam jogged up the uneven stone steps and opened the church’s massive wooden doors, music from the men’s choir greeting him as he stepped into a musty darkness, taking a few moments for his eyes to adjust. It was a surprisingly large crowd, to his mind, for this early an hour. At the very least, an Anglican service would never interrupt the ton ’s morning-after recuperation time like this.

He had no trouble spotting Amanda and Anthony. After a squeaky walk up the old center aisle, Richard slipped into the pew behind them. As a rather large British officer, he had caused something of a commotion upon entering the church, but he took this all in stride, excusing himself most graciously for the interruption, even exchanging pleasantries with the people around him. Only one or two of the faithful were brave enough to express their anger with him. Most seemed only sleepy, and others were just plain curious. “Pardon, please pardon…” he kept repeating politely in his rumbling baritone whisper, then he set his hat down on the seat beside him.

Anthony turned almost immediately, amused and nodding in welcoming acknowledgement, but Amanda’s reaction was one of stiff-backed bewilderment. On the pew between them sat a sleepy little boy, a beloved cloth toy clutched to his chest. He suckled his thumb as he nodded off to sleep.

Fitzwilliam had composed what he felt was a compelling argument to present to Amanda concerning their joint future. As he would before any battle, he had methodically examined each and every option, attempted to anticipate any unforeseen impediments, and had settled upon a clearly thought-out and logical plan of action. Now that his plan was decided upon, Fitzwilliam was eager to set it in motion. In his experience with battle, delay often meant defeat.