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

Managing to sit still in his pew for only a few moments, he came forward to kneel on the hard wooden slat. He poked Amanda once in the back, unaware that her face had already passed bright pink and was now approaching crimson. Her hand flew behind to swipe his away. “Amanda,” he gruffly whispered, “I need to speak with you.”

A chorus of “shhhhs” assailed him from every direction.

“Pardon me… My error… Terribly sorry…” Sufficiently chastised, he nodded apologetically to all around him and most drifted back into an inattentive daze, unwilling to further antagonize the intruder. After all, he towered over everyone, even kneeling down.

The choir started on their next hymn, the number in large letters on a board in the front of church. Casting about for a hymnal, Fitzwilliam snatched one from the pew behind him, turning to the indicated selection. It was with great relief that he recognized, “O God Our Help in Ages Past.”

“How very excellent. This hymn is one of the favorites of my youth,” he announced in an ear-deafening aside. Fitzwilliam faced forward and began to sing.

His booming baritone erupted like a bomb in the small chapel, easily drowning out the half-hearted Catholic bleating of the flock. Anthony’s shoulders began to shake. Amanda yelped. The child between them jumped as if bitten.

Up on the altar, Father Riley’s shoulders flinched, and he turned an annoyed glance in Fitzwilliam’s direction, removing his glasses and putting down the outline of the sermon he was reviewing. Many of the faithful in the congregation followed their pastor’s lead and strained to look at this most vocal of visitors.

Fitzwilliam, who had always considered singing at the top of your lungs in church the very best reason for attending, appeared blissfully content with the attention and graciously smiled back at one and all.

It was seven-thirty in the morning, and Harry Penrod was bored, bored with the hushed voices and the dim candles, bored with the slow, reverent singing. He was so bored that he was even unwilling to fight, as he always did, the drift into sleep he was feeling. He sucked contentedly on his thumb and moved his tiny hand forward to play with the fringes of his mama’s shawl. Even horsey was not of any interest to him at the moment.

It was then that the earth shook, and Harry jumped from the shock, his head spinning around to see what disastrous event had occurred. To his great surprise, behind him stood the largest man he had ever seen, wearing a huge tent of a cloak, which when parted, revealed red material containing shiny brass medals and glimpses of golden braid.

It was a soldier!

Harry stared up at the giant for the longest time, speechless. What to do? What to do? Here was one of those moments his mama had warned him about that could divert him from respectful silence for Baby Jesus. On the one hand, he was only a little boy, but on the other, he had promised his mama to remain quiet and out of trouble for the duration of the mass. After all…

Baby Jesus never caused trouble.

Baby Jesus obeyed his nursey and put away his clothes.

Baby Jesus always finished his soup. Privately, Harry had once or twice sacrilegiously thought that Baby Jesus did not seem to be much fun, but still and all, Harry wished he could be like Baby Jesus, if only for a few moments.

Then the giant winked at him!

His little heart pumped wildly. Unable to resist, Harry pulled himself into a standing position to commence reconnaissance. Perhaps beneath that heavy cloak there were gold buttons and braids, more medals, velvet trim—oh, but it could be a hidden treasure trove of delights, this magnificent uniform. He gingerly pulled back the edge of the cloak to peek inside, hoping that the large man would somehow not notice this rather personal intrusion. Never before had he seen so much brass and gold—this must be a very important soldier, he reasoned, and such a huge expanse of red that it made his eyes swim! Pushing the cloak open even wider, he leaned way over and then sighed, disappointed not to see a bloody sword. He closed the cloak and then patted it fondly.

The child sniffled, vigorously rubbing his nose back and forth across his sleeve, and oh, how Fitzwilliam remembered the days when there was no time for studies or naps or pianoforte lessons, let alone handkerchiefs. He retrieved a clean one from his pocket and held it over the child’s mouth and nose. The boy’s eyes flashed up to Fitzwilliam’s face as he blew his nose loudly into the cloth two or three times. Fitzwilliam then folded it over and dabbed the little nose dry before returning the saturated cloth to his pocket.

Harry stood up on tiptoes so that he could whisper near to Richard’s ear, “Thank you, sir.”

“You are quite welcome,” replied Fitzwilliam, smiling down at the beautiful youngster. With a child’s innocence, little Harry disregarded the imposing size of the man, only to see the gentle warmth of his smile, and smiled in return. He continued to regard Fitzwilliam for several more minutes.

“You are a soldier, sir.”

“Why, so I am,” Fitzwilliam responded, and the child nodded gravely, his eyes filled with respect.

He studied Fitzwilliam thoughtfully. Holding the back of the pew, he rocked back once or twice, his intense curiosity focusing on the many scars of battle he saw, on the soldier’s neck and forehead, the faint scar across his jaw, then finally he rested his gaze on a very large and ugly scar on Fitzwilliam’s hand. Utterly fascinated, he fingered it tenderly as he sniffled once more. Again he went up on his tiptoes to speak into Fitzwilliam’s ear. “From where did you receive this, sir? Was it in a battle?” he asked in his child’s little whisper.

Fitzwilliam nodded. “I received that at Waterloo,” he whispered back. The boy gravely nodded with all the immense respect due to the significance of that fact, even though he hadn’t a clue what a Waterloo was. Then he recollected a wound he himself had received in battle and pulled up his trouser. Twisting his leg around, he pointed to a scar on the back of his calf while he held onto Richard’s shoulder for balance. Richard reached his arm about the boy’s waist for support.

Richard dutifully studied the little scar and made an appropriately sympathetic noise. He raised an eyebrow inquiry.

“Dorset” was the identification of the battlefield.

Fitzwilliam stifled his chuckle with a discreet cough. “Ah.”

They stayed like that for several moments, the companionable silent bonding of two warriors. They were now best of pals, Harry’s arm stretched up to Fitzwilliam’s shoulder, which he would pat occasionally to comfort his new friend. Fitzwilliam still had his arm supporting the child’s waist.

He strained upward to speak into Richard’s ear again as he touched the scarred hand. “Did a Frenchie do that to you, sir?” His compassion was deeply serious, and Fitzwilliam nodded, much moved by the child’s sincerity.

Harry let that information take root for a moment in his five-year-old brain, and sighing, shook his head.

“Goddamn Frenchies…” he sympathized.

“All right, that is quite enough.” Amanda turned, no longer able to pretend ignorance of the conversation behind her.

Harry cast a worried glance up at his mother. “Whatever is wrong, Mama?” he whispered.

“Shush! Harry, please sit down now and pay attention to the mass,” she whispered back.

“But, Mama, I wasn’t doing anything bad,” he explained. “I have to give comfort to my new friend. He is a soldier. Don’t look at him. He’s been horribly disfigured by war.”

Amanda’s eyes went briefly up to Richard’s in mute apology, but he was grinning back at her, his eyes revealing his deep affection. A defeated Harry sat back down in his seat as his mother began her obligatory reprimand.