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

Oh my God, some people should just be drowned at birth. Fitzwilliam smiled down politely at the eager gentleman. “I don’t recall meeting him, sir, but I am certain I heard about his bravery. If you will excuse me, I must be going. I am late for an important meeting. Good afternoon.” Thank God this bloody war is behind me.

Truth be told, though, the war years were not completely behind Fitzwilliam, whether he acknowledged it or not. Unknown to his friends and even to some of his family, Fitzwilliam had been experiencing the aftermaths of war—battle fatigue and its accompanying nightmares, flashbacks, and panic seizures.

The more these symptoms plagued him, the deeper he fell into his old cycle from the years before—drinking, women, and gambling—until he himself was becoming aware of the adverse effect it was having on his physical, as well as mental, health.

The tide turned upon one comment from his beloved aunt Catherine. “ Character is revealed in the dark, Richard. ”

Damn old bat.

The remark had struck home. He knew his dark had become more and more appalling, possessing moments he would be loath to have exposed to the world, behavior of which he had become deeply ashamed.

One day he would open up to Darcy. He knew that a day would come eventually, probably during a drunken weekend and after several bottles of whiskey, and maybe then he could begin to confront the demons that tormented him.

He wanted so to have better life.

He wanted so to be a better man.

The cold wind bit viciously at the little slice of his face still exposed to the elements. He held his hat down and averted his eyes from the sting of the icy crystals that were blowing everywhere. One more blasted block to Darcy’s, and he was already muttering scandalous oaths into his scarf. He heard the horses’ whinny at the last minute, just in time to avoid crashing into the back of the private carriage sitting alone in the square.

His initial aggravation was soon replaced with concern for the coach’s livestock. I dearly hope this groom is sensible enough to bring his horses out of the blasted cold, he worried. A cavalry man by trade and a country gentleman in his fondest dreams, he rated horses on the same level with few people he knew, and on a higher level than most others. He approached the man, speaking loudly to be heard over the wind.

“Excuse me, John Coachman.”

The man turned a jaundiced eye toward him, only to have his demeanor dissolve into the excited wonder to which Fitzwilliam was now accustomed. “Well, bloody ’ell! I say, I say. You’re ‘The Waterloo Colonel,’ ain’t you, sir?! Let me shake your ’and, sir. Let me shake your ’and. Well, cor, what a honor this is, to be sure! Bloody ’ell!”

Nodding, Fitzwilliam firmly clasped the man’s hand in both of his, saying loudly over the wind, “I don’t think it wise to keep your cattle still like this for much longer. Perhaps you should walk them around for a bit.”

“Imagine you takin’ a interest in these poor, dumb beasts, but ain’t you the finest there is. That’s wot everyone says, and so it is, so it is. Don’t worry yerself, Colonel, sir. ’Er ladyship will be off just as soon as the young ’un brings ’er blanket. She works the poor tib somethin’ fearful. ’Ere she come now.”

The older woman, a very disagreeable old tabby he recognized as being of his late mother’s slight acquaintance, had snapped down the carriage window and was leaning forward, her two hands clasped on the edge. “Amanda! Attend me, you ignorant girl! Did you remember to bring my woolen shawl also? I do need my woolen shawl,” she screeched. “And my fan—be quick about it, do you hear? We haven’t all day!” The window on the carriage snapped upward again. Fitzwilliam turned, amused and curious now as to whom she would call so rudely, when his breath caught in his throat. The whole square suddenly hushed.

He recognized her instantly. Over the years he had always been eager to smile in greeting and tip his hat in the hopes they could meet; she had been his dreamlike ideal of beauty, always mysteriously vanishing before he could reach her… and now here she was in the solid form of a plain, simple, dark grey cloak and gown.

She was blindly running up behind a young girl who looked to be around Georgiana’s age, a child dressed in the top stare of fashion and waiting to be handed into the coach by a distracted footman. The young woman had squeezed her eyes shut against the sleet and misjudged the distance to the young girl, colliding into her and causing them both to start a fit of giggles. The old tabby launched into yet another heated tirade.

He was unaware of how intensely he stared or how long this little scene lasted, struck senseless as he was by this elusive beauty now so close before him. She had dropped her reticule and was spinning, searching the ground, clutching at the old woman’s shawl that swirled about her legs. Long, dark blonde tendrils escaped from a bonnet threatening to be blown off, and her eyes blinked against the flying, stinging ice crystals. He bent to pick up the bag lying unnoticed in the wild wind and, stepping up behind her, rested his hand gently upon her arm. Electric.

She gasped and spun around, looking first at his chest, which was eye level, and then turning her face up higher, her eyes wide with surprise. She smiled her recognition instantly. His heart stopped. When he spoke, he raised his voice over the wail of the wind. “I believe you dropped this, madam.” He then warmly smiled back at her. Those huge eyes were a breathtaking almond shape, the deepest, darkest brown imaginable and innocent as a baby doe’s, fringed with long, thick black lashes. Delicate dark blonde brows arched above them like willowy, graceful caterpillars. Her skin was smooth as porcelain, creamy and flushed, the rosy red tint of the freezing wind accentuating broad, high cheekbones. Her nose was not the tiny button of an English miss but strong-looking and slightly wide. He stared at her lip’s full, soft moist form and nearly began to salivate, actually forgot to breathe. The whole effect was exotic, exhilarating.

Taking the bag, she nodded in thanks and was just opening her mouth to speak when a muffled threat barked from within startled her, commanding her to enter the carriage. The footman quickly approached and took her hand, forcing her to step up onto the coach steps while the driver leaned toward Fitzwilliam to apologize. “Sorry, Colonel, sir,” John Coachman yelled into his ear. “’Er Royal ’ighness ’ere is in rare temper today. Let me shake your ’and again, though, sir. ’Tis a honor, sir, a honor, and one that I shall lord over me mates tonight!”

The old tabby angrily pulled the carriage door closed once the beauty was barely within and then bellowed for them to be off immediately, furious that they were scandalously late for somewhere already. John Coachman tested and secured the door, touched his hat respectfully toward the colonel, and jumped up into his seat.

Fitzwilliam stepped back as the carriage jerked forward and started moving, making a turn at the end of the square and then once again slowly crossing his path. He watched it closely, his eyes searching within, his heart pounding against his ribs when he saw she was looking directly back at him, clasping the bag to her bosom and smiling in thanks. It was her eyes that seared him, melted into him, creating an emotion that sent intense waves of heat rushing throughout his body. When the carriage moved quickly away, only the back of her bonnet showed in the window.

“Look at me, love,” he whispered, willing her to turn around so he could see her again… and then she did. He had never been so affected by a woman before in his life, nor had he seen a face so beautiful and so unique and so riveting. She watched through the back window and continued staring at him until the carriage was out of sight.

It seemed then that the world around him had been sitting in a sort of muted shock, as if a new day gradually was dawning in his conscious mind. He continued his watch long after the coach passed from view. When his heart started beating again, he harrumphed and pulled his collar up to hold tightly around his neck, blowing out the breath he was suddenly aware he had been holding.

What in bloody hell was that? He tried to shake off the emotional bond that seemed to have sparked to life between them. This is ridiculous, he snorted. Too much cheap claret at lunch. He laughed to himself, willing his nerves to somehow stop trembling. It wasn’t until another carriage passed by and someone he knew called out a greeting to him that he roused himself and continued on to Darcy’s.

“And where’s our Little Behemoth? I hope she’s not lodged herself within some doorway again.” Fitzwilliam stood gratefully before the roaring fire and rubbed his raw, cold hands briskly together. Elizabeth had become very, very pregnant of late. They teased her mercilessly. She was immense.

Without raising his eyes, Darcy motioned upward with his pen, in the general direction of Lizzy’s private sitting rooms. He was ensconced at his desk, surveying the reports spread upon it, reports brought to him that morning by the estate manager of his massive holding, Pemberley, in Derbyshire.

“Unfortunately, we had a bit of a disagreement at breakfast. Apparently LB is questioning the fairness of this whole pregnancy situation and at present is hosting a lively protest in her room. She and Georgiana have finished off two boxes of chocolates, a dozen scones, and are now into the peach tarts.”