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

She stood slowly and settled into the seat next to him, snuggling under his arm and resting her head on his shoulder. Pulling her closer, he leaned down for a kiss, first lightly on her forehead and then deeply upon her mouth, their tongues stroking slowly and gently, thoroughly caressing each other.

It was two hours later, and Darcy was strolling around their bedroom, unwilling to return his son to the family cradle. He was enraptured with the small, sleeping bundle in his arms, so warm and soft and defenseless. This was his heir, the man who would carry the Darcy name and heritage and fortune into the future, the comfort and pride of his parent’s old age. It was heavy baggage for such tiny shoulders, but Darcy would be there to help his son every step of the way, every moment he was needed, until his last breath. He kissed the little head, enjoying the innocent scent unique to babies, his life already in forfeit, never to be the same.

Lizzy kept drifting off to sleep, however, unable or unwilling to concentrate on her husband’s excited chatter, so he made his way soundlessly down the stairs to the front parlor, where he found his cousin sleeping. Both Richard and Amanda were snoring disgracefully, and the colonel did not immediately respond to Darcy’s initial gentle requests to awaken. Finally, an exasperated Darcy gave the bottom of his cousin’s boot a very hard and swift kick. “Fitz, you pathetic sloth, wake up and meet your new cousin.”

“What!” Fitzwilliam awoke with a start, snorted and then gasped. He shook his head to clear it from sleep. “What time is it?!”

“Half past three in the morning.”

“You bloody bastard! You’re lucky I didn’t have a… a pistol in my hand or… a sword… sharp object… lightning-fast reflexes… lethal…” His snores resumed before his head fell back onto the settee.

“Wake up!” Darcy hauled off and kicked his boot again, much harder. “Get up, you imbecile. Meet my son.”

Fitzwilliam’s eyes finally blinked open and focused on the bundle in Darcy’s arms. Yawning broadly, he slowly stood, hoisting the still-sleeping Harry higher onto his shoulder. “Never tell me this is the brute that woke up the entire of Mayfair with his bellowing?”

“Hellacious, wasn’t he?” Darcy beamed as he pulled back the blanket.

“Well, I’ll be damned. What’s he calling himself these days?”

“Bennet George Darcy.”

“Benny Darcy?”

“Good God, no! Sounds like a public-house proprietor. We’ll call him George.”

Fitzwilliam was very impressed, already feeling the bonds of family for the tiny fellow. “He’s rather immense to have come out of our little Lizzy, isn’t he?” he whispered. “Ooh! Look at that head! Fitzwilliam proportion head—very promising. He’ll be a brilliant scholar.”

Darcy nodded proudly. “Yes, and Lizzy assured me that this is our last child and that I can never touch her again.” By the smile on Darcy’s face, Fitzwilliam knew she would soon be required to revisit that declaration.

“God, but he looks a great deal like your father, doesn’t he?”

“That’s because he’s bald.”

“No, don’t be absurd. Look at his nose and the drool on his chin. Uncle George is stamped all over this face. I think I’ll get him a little powdered wig for his christening.”

“You would be godfather, you know.”

“The immense good fortune of this child just keeps accumulating.”

Darcy laughed. “The doctor examined him and Elizabeth and said they are both splendid.” He tenderly kissed his son’s head. “Although, I could have said as much.”

“I’m surprised you allowed that glorified barber anywhere near them after this evening.”

Darcy cooed at his child. “The fucking bastard is lucky he left with his manhood still attached, isn’t he, little one? No, he’ll not come anywhere near this house or my family again, I can guarantee that.” Darcy rubbed his nose against his boy’s tiny mittened fist. “Not if he wants to retain possession of his spleen.” He then continued relating to the child all manner of bloody things he would visit upon the good doctor. “Amanda’s friend, Anthony Milagros, will be called for tomorrow. I’ve heard very good things about him.”

Nodding, Fitzwilliam leaned down and kissed the child’s forehead, then discharged another loud, lusty yawn in the baby’s face. The baby wrinkled his nose and shook his head in disgust, making the two men laugh uproariously.

“Go on upstairs and get some proper rest. Should I send a note over in the morning to Lady Penrod about Amanda?”

“No. I believe we have burned that bridge this night. Evidently, Amanda’s maid ran off with one of your footmen, probably back to the old woman to report. In fact, we may have no place to go after tonight, Fitz. Is it still all right if we stay here on a temporary basis?”

“Do you even need to ask?” He shook his head. “She saved Elizabeth’s life tonight, Fitz, as well as my son’s. I’m sure of it. You both can live here as long as you desire.”

As Fitzwilliam was stretching his arms and long legs, he barked his laughter. “Thank you, Cousin, but I’m certain you’ll wake to regret that offer. The fact is, though, that the marriage cannot be hidden anymore. We’re well in the soup now, and in a way, I am glad of it.”

“I don’t know how we can ever thank you, and especially Amanda. When I think what might have happened here last night…” Darcy’s voice began to break when suddenly he laughed. “He is so big, Richard! You have to see his skinny feet. I can’t believe he came from my little Lizzy. He’ll tower over you and me one day.”

“He is here and healthy, and that’s all the counts, brat. Thank God this ordeal is over.” When Fitzwilliam turned to wake Amanda, he found her sleeping soundly. She had fallen facedown and was snoring on the spot where he had been sitting. He shook her shoulder to wake her. “The entire household was vying for the happy task of blowing your brains out if this had gone on any longer.”

Wearing a borrowed nightgown from Elizabeth that was both too short and too tight, Amanda fussed about Harry’s bed for a final “tuck in and hug tight,” although the recipient of all her motherly attentions was already dead to the world.

The little boy had not awakened when Fitzwilliam carried him up the stairs—so exhausted that he did not wake when he was laid down on his little bed or when his mother undressed him and slipped a nightshirt on him. Amanda watched her son as he slept, an angel still new and innocent and sweet. If only they had been able to slip away tonight . If only she could be free, even for a moment, of the terror of losing him, a terror so overwhelming that she was sorry her husband had even awakened her.

She was both emotionally and physically exhausted from the day’s events, her mind a jumbled mush with nightmarish visions of her boy being ripped from her arms, her boy screaming for her, her boy suffering because of her weakness of loving another.

The reality was that any hope for escape was probably finished. She had long suspected that servants had been watching her, waiting for her to cross the mistress. Someone would be rewarded handsomely this night. They would not wait until the mistress returned from her holiday party, she would be told immediately. The authorities would come in the morning to take away her son, and she would be forced to beg permission to return with him to Penwood House.

Once more her existence would be solitary, alone for years in that wretched house. In fact, the loneliness would be even worse now. Richard had opened a door for her to a life unimagined, a life with a passionate, caring partner. It was a life she could not openly live, if at all, for years to come, and then only if Richard was willing to wait for her.