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

“ Never doubt for a moment that we will not ,” added the now inexplicably alert Lady Catherine.

Turning to Lady Catherine, Mrs. Fitzherbert nodded, then they both turned to Richard. “Colonel, will you assist us back to the carriage? We are feeling quite distressed. Quite dissatisfied. When we next speak with our husband, he will be quite displeased!”

He leaned into the carriage and stared, dumbstruck, at the two old tabbies, both of whom were now laughing like schoolgirls. “Well, that was a bit of fun, I must say.” His aunt shook out the folds of her gown as she gasped for breath. “Heavens but that woman is a horrible snob. Imagine objecting to the girl because of her religion! La, what a small mind.”

“I do not believe what I just witnessed!” Standing in the open carriage door, he studied each woman carefully, a stunned look on his face. “I am appalled, shocked to my bones, in fact, by that blatant display of treachery and blackmail.” He shook his head. “It was absolutely magnificent, and I bow to the masters. I could kiss you both. Thank you, Mrs. Fitzherbert. I can never repay you for this.”

Lady Catherine and Mrs. Fitzherbert both beamed back at him, proud as peahens. “Nonsense, Colonel. We shall still have to wait and see. It is not a fait accompli by any means, you realize. Have no illusions that my husband would truly revoke the child’s title, please, but we can ensure that the woman’s life will become a social nightmare, as she now knows. No one in the ton , no one , would willingly move backward in status. One would rather face the black plague.

“And I truly do empathize with what your wife has gone through. Whatever I can do to help her, believe me, I will.” The look in her eyes softened, grew gentle as she spoke, remembering her heartbreak at having her marriage invalidated, her husband forced to marry another.

Fitzwilliam tucked the lap robe around his aunt and kissed her hand. “Richard, come, get into the carriage. Are you not returning with us?” Catherine looked at her nephew, her voice sounding disappointed.

The events he had just witnessed were the first real ray of hope he had experienced in over a month, and he looked away, trying to hide the emotions that threatened. “I will definitely come, but not now. I have some ends to tie up first and a bit of groveling to do with Wellington for my family’s future.”

“I know you will not fail me, Richard. You, more than so many others, understand honor and where your heart lies.”

He leaned into the carriage and took her hands. “Aunt Catherine…” He hesitated, not knowing how to say what was in his heart. With that, he took her into his great arms to hug her close. “Aunt Catherine,” he repeated hoarsely, “I can never thank you enough for what you have done today. How can I ever repay you both?”

This was her boy returning to her finally, the man she knew he could be, the man unafraid to show his love, gratitude, and devotion. Her hand patted his cheek, and she resumed her usual haughty demeanor. “Name two of your children after us, the girls, preferably. This will ensure that they will be greatly proficient in anything they undertake and that they will be considered diamonds of the first water for their beauty.”

He let out a bark of laughter and kissed her forehead. “Consider it done.”

She cupped his chin and smiled at him. “I will remind you of all this love and devotion at our next bataille, mon fils .”

Laughing, he kissed both of her hands.

He took Mrs. Fitzherbert’s hand and kissed it gently, thanking her once again, then backed down from the carriage door and smiled up at them both. “Please tell my wife I will come to her as soon as I can. I will be there sometime tonight, though, I promise.” He stepped away, and the footman closed the door, the four horsemen who would ride on either side of the carriage bringing their mounts into position. Through the back window, he could see the two old friends as the carriage drove off, giggling and laughing over their great triumph.

It was much later that evening by the time he finished speaking with Wellington, his aunt’s house already closed and in darkness, everyone abed. Fitzwilliam was waiting anxiously for Jamison to bring Amanda down into Catherine’s overly ornate family parlor. The night and the whiskey had gotten away from him while he and his general discussed old battles, the Ordnance Board, the future, and a hundred other topics. He kept delaying his leave-taking until the peer finally threw him out, muttering about how much more courage it seemed to take the soldier to face his little bride than it had taken him to face the army of Napoleon. A slightly inebriated colonel finally climbed into his borrowed carriage and called up to the driver to take him to Catherine’s.

As he waited, he looked about himself at the ostentation—the flamboyant, imported furnishings, the crystal and gilt, the priceless statues and artwork—all the incredible opulence that constantly surrounded his family and, especially, his aunt. He would never admit it to a soul, but he loved this gaudy old room.

For eleven years, he had experienced a life that the aristocracy could never imagine, and it had changed him. Commanding both viscounts and pig farmers, fighting alongside butchers and thieves, dining with emperors, sleeping with whores and countesses, he had come to realize that the Americans were right about one thing—there really was little difference between people.

He remembered the laughter and love between the soldiers and their women in camp—poor people who had nothing in life but each other. He certainly could not settle for less in his own life. He wanted the same tender love that any lowly cottager would. He needed the same sense of family and security taken for granted by any tavern keeper. There was only one woman for him, and if he had to wait a lifetime for her, he would do so. She was his heart and soul, his partner and closest friend, the first true love of his life, and the last.

He stopped before a portrait of his father and his father’s two sisters, Catherine and Anne. Catherine, as the eldest, was seated in the forefront, a countess already at twenty with the hauteur and superior look that had made her famous—fair-haired, porcelain-skinned, and incredibly beautiful. Behind her on her right was Anne Fitzwilliam, Darcy’s mother. Anne would have been nearly eighteen years old, with the dark hair and aristocratic beauty that Darcy inherited. He remembered her as a sweet and happy woman, gentle with the children and always deferring to her husband, often laughing as she hugged her son to her. Her warm eyes were softer and kinder than Catherine’s.

To the left of Catherine stood his father, also with dark hair and piercing blue eyes, an incredibly good-looking young Corinthian, just eleven months Catherine’s junior. Fitzwilliam swelled with pride at the sight, wished he could have known him in his wild youth. He was ridiculously proud of this father, who looked high-spirited and eager to take on the world. The three had been close in age but vastly different in temperaments.

This trio before him were links in a chain that reached as far back as the Conqueror, links in a chain of which he was a part, taking it into the future through his children and their children.

Of a sudden, he felt very proud and very humbled.

Amanda entered quietly, relief at the sight of him flooding through her—his size, his broad chest and shoulders always making her pulse quicken. The thought struck the moment she saw him, and her heart and her path were clear as glass before her. “’Whither thou goest, I shall go, where thou lodgest, I shall lodge, thy people shall be my people, thy God my God,’” she whispered, causing him to turn.