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

I shall call the decorator and have this entire hallway redone in a Persian motif. Yes, that would be very good, since I do look so very well in blue silk. I draw the line, however, at wearing turbans. Too fanatical a fashion statement, if anyone was to ask me… Catherine was walking serenely past him when his words finally took root in her brain. Aghast and insulted, she snatched first her reticule and then her gloves from Jamison, after which he was forced to follow her at a respectable distance, holding up her cloak as she angrily paced back and forth. “Whenever have I ever done anything to cause you or anyone else any concern?!”

Fitzwilliam whimpered, and his hand went immediately to his flip-flopping stomach. For unknown reasons, Catherine took this motion as some sort of an apology and an admission of his gross unfairness toward her. “And see that you don’t!” No one understood what that meant either.

An outside footman opened the door and nodded to the butler. At last donning her cloak Catherine motioned for Jamison to open the great doors, aunt and nephew emerging into the brilliant winter morning. Almost immediately, the most magnificent coach Fitzwilliam had ever beheld approached the front portico of Rosings House, pulled by four immense, matching black Arabians.

Emitting an impressed whistle, he turned toward his aunt, a suspicious gleam in his eye. “Who in the world owns this, then?” He searched for a crest or some indication of the owner, but there was nothing, only the black mirrored reflection of themselves standing there. A coach this magnificent was reserved for royalty; not even a duke or an earl would dare be this ostentatious. It was large enough for the entire royal family.

Four liveried guards riding abreast of the carriage confirmed his impression. A wigged footman in black and gold jumped down from the rear of the carriage and ran to open the door as another came from nowhere to offer his hand in assistance. Catherine motioned for Fitzwilliam to follow as she was handed into the coach. The footmen bowed to him.

“Richard, you know Mrs. Fitzherbert, do you not? I believe the last time you saw her you were ten years old and setting fire to a chamber pot.” Catherine spoke cheerfully, nearly bubbling over with good humor and pride. “Maria, as you know, was my dearest friend during my single days at court. We had such good fun.” The lady smiled warmly at Lady Catherine while taking her hand and giving it a loving pat, then turned to Fitzwilliam.

Mrs. Maria Fitzherbert was rightful wife of George, Prince of Wales, the future George IV, King of England, or so she was regarded by certain members of the upper ten thousand. The prince had married the twice-widowed Mrs. Fitzherbert in a Catholic ceremony, and they had lived secretly together until, sadly, the King dissolved the marriage and forced his union with another. Now in their older years, it was Mrs. Fitzherbert in whom the prince confided, regarded as his soul’s true life partner. Although he still kept many mistresses, she was his dearest friend.

“It’s an honor to see you again, madam.” Fitzwilliam took her hand and kissed it. Long accustomed to royal circles, he was polite but not in awe. He was confused by her presence.

“The honor is mine, Colonel Fitzwilliam. I don’t believe my husband and I have properly commended your valor at Waterloo.” She smiled warmly at him, her eyes crinkling with warmth. “We followed the campaigns very closely over the years. You are very highly regarded as a true hero in our home, sir.”

Teatime at Penwood saw the dowager Lady Marguerite Penrod hard at work at her desk, penning instructions to her solicitors, menus for the week ahead with treats that she knew her grandson favored, rejection letters to the many applicants for position of governess. Beneath these neat stacks were more important letters—letters from and to boarding schools. The farther she could send the child, the less influence the American would have. The less influence the American would have, the better chance her grandson would be brought up properly—as an English gentleman befitting his rank and title.

Her butler scratched lightly at the door, entering discreetly the moment he was instructed. He walked solemnly to her side, the beautifully understated calling card lying face up in the center of the silver salver. When she did not immediately acknowledge him, he coughed softly to draw her attention. She slammed her hand down onto the desk.

“Did I not tell you I was to be left alone this afternoon? Why must every instruction I issue be compromised?” She sighed angrily. “Whoever is out there, send them away.”

“Forgive me, madam. I thought perhaps you would make an exception in this case.” His eyes drifted anxiously to the card. He appeared very nervous.

Curiosity getting the better of her, she gave him a calculated, hard glare then snatched the card from the tray. Within moments, her expression swept from annoyance to ecstasy. It was then felled by a look of apprehension. Ordinarily she would have been overjoyed at the tremendous honor of a visit by none other than Lady Catherine de Bourgh herself. However, she had been made recently aware that her appalling daughter-in-law was somehow involved with both the countess’s nephews, meeting scandalously for a liaison with one and hiding her son at another’s home. Alarm spoiled what would have been her immense pride at this unprecedented visit.

Surely Lady Catherine de Bourgh would not assign any responsibility to her for the whole unseemly affair. Why the woman wasn’t even English—was a savage American, in fact, and certainly never again to be welcomed into this home. Yes, that’s what she would assure her. Possibly together they could even force Amanda to return to America, demand to have her deported. Or shot. Lady Catherine de Bourgh had connections, tremendously powerful connections.

Lady Catherine assuredly is as very much opposed to this match as I am, perhaps even more so… Yes, indeed, this could be my entrée into the higher circles of the aristocracy. Very likely, Lady Catherine de Bourgh will be extremely happy to see the back of that American and is seeking my assistance. She may even recommend me for vouchers to Almack’s, even perhaps an invitation to Carlton House!

In fact, the more she thought about it, the more Lady Penrod believed that to be the most probable reason for the visit. After all, they were sort of kindred spirits in this whole fiasco. Lady Catherine would have no doubts as to her assistance in this. No, Lady Catherine de Bourgh would see that she had a most loyal ally in Lady Marguerite Penrod.

“Please show her in immediately,” she commanded in a most exasperated manner. “Why ever are you just standing there? Move!” Imagine leaving Lady Catherine in the foyer, cooling her heels! She smoothed down the imperceptible wrinkles in her dress. How’s my hair? She quickly rose from the desk to check her appearance in the mirror, when in the reflection, she saw Lady Catherine enter.

She stepped forward, grandly extending her hands to her illustrious guest, a huge, welcoming smile on her lips. The smile evaporated quickly and turned into stunned and frozen shock at the personage who entered after Lady Catherine.

“The Woman” was being led into the room by an army colonel, her hand resting companionably upon his arm.

“Lady Marguerite Penrod, may I introduce Mrs. Maria Anne Fitzherbert, and I believe you already know of my nephew, Colonel Richard Fitzwilliam.” Lady Penrod curtseyed so low that she had trouble arising. Her heart was pounding.

“I am incredibly honored that you are in my home… that either of you are in my home… incredibly honored…” Words were tumbling out at a frightening pace. A genuine Royal worshiper, Lady Penrod continued to bow before Mrs. Fitzherbert. “I never thought I would ever… I mean I have seen you, naturally…”