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

He stared down at her in fuming silence.

“She is a servant, Richard! That is obvious by the meanness of her attire! You cannot be serious!”

Fitzwilliam’s voice grew ominously quiet. “I am not in the habit of judging people merely by their garments, Aunt. Besides, how can you of all people consider her a servant? She is still young enough to walk without assistance.”

“Don’t you get so high and mighty with me, young man! No woman of quality would be seen out in the evening without jewels, with no gloves, no hair adornments—in wool! Where is her fan, I ask? Ugh! Merciful heavens, this is not to be borne!”

Darcy cleared his throat. “Aunt Catherine, we had considered that possibly the young woman in question may be a foreigner, perhaps in mourning attire. That would explain the rather drab clothing as well as her lack of embellishment.”

“Oh, the poor dear, a war widow, do you think?” Catherine’s hand went to her heart in devastated compassion, completely forgetting her previous outburst.

It swiftly passed.

“Very well, come along, everyone,” she chirped. “Fitzwilliam, it appears that you will be having a bit of competition for your widow—oh la, that sounded rather ominous, didn’t it?” Catherine had been motioning toward an officer circling Brown Eyes when she realized what she had said. She took Fitzwilliam’s arm and pulled him behind her. “Well, never you mind, sirrah. At the present, you will have to settle with charming your viperous hostess.”

It was nearly a half hour later before Fitzwilliam and Darcy made their escape from the high-pitched, squealing voice of their hostess, Lady Sally Jersey, in addition to the whining Lady Castlereigh, the barely audible Lady Cowper, and the baritone Lady Sefton, all audibly thrilled to have such distinguished gentlemen in their midst.

“Kill me if I ever agree to do this for another female relative,” Fitzwilliam spoke pleasantly to anyone within hearing.

“Aunt Catherine wants me to dance with Princess Esterhazy’s daughter…”

“Oh, you poor sod.” Fitzwilliam’s attention was distracted suddenly.

“Can I leave you alone for fifteen minutes without your causing a scene? Richard? Richard?”

Richard had already stomped away.

Merde.

Amanda Sayles Penrod sat among the dowagers, widows, and poor-relation chaperones that occupy the draftiest, farthest, and darkest corners of any ballroom or assembly, and happy she was for even this little diversion. It had been months since she had seen been at a public gathering, years since she had attended a society ball with music and dancing. If only her dearest Anthony had accompanied her this night, she would have felt safer and more relaxed, less alone.

She was momentarily drawn from her daydreams to be introduced, along with her late husband’s cousin, Emily, to a beautiful young woman, a member of one of the grandest families in England, the Darcys. A gracious and sweet young lady, Georgiana Darcy was much less intimidating than the other debutantes in attendance this night, and Amanda could sense Emily’s immediate ease. She wistfully waved the two off, both girls emboldened now by the presence of a kindred spirit, as they began meeting other young people.

Amanda sighed. One day perhaps she, too, would again know the joy of beautiful clothes and dancing and love and romance. Her heart quickened as always at the thought of a certain oddly attractive and very tall colonel who, if not classically handsome, was very masculine and self-assured and commanding. She had noticed him over the years, followed his brilliant career, had smiled shyly at him from across the square, but had never come face-to-face with the man until he retrieved her reticule from under the carriage. Still and all though, they hadn’t really met properly and probably never would. Well, it did no harm to fantasize. Fantasy was all she would ever allow herself. She could never meet anyone now, not when her little boy so needed her.

Of a sudden, she was aware of movement around her. Officers had approached and were attempting to converse with her. Pretending ignorance, Amanda shrugged her shoulders and shook her head, an impressive dumb show of confusion if she did say so herself. She lowered her eyes to hands folded demurely on her lap and just prayed to heaven that the men would forget her and leave.

Instead, the two old women who had been seated beside her and in front clucked their tongues and walked away, uninterested in assisting a young woman who looked so poor and acted so servile. A third old tabby dozed fitfully, her head lolling back and then jerking forward whenever her snores awakened her.

At first, the men seemed to be enjoying what they interpreted as shyness, quickly becoming emboldened by her apparent lack of understanding and protection. The discourse between the drunken officers spiraled into the colorfully ribald. “Could she be a delectable little soiled dove in disguise as a housemaid?”

One inebriated officer laughed hysterically as he attempted to see the color of her eyes. As she kept lowering her head to avoid him, he kept bending over until, at one point, he nearly lost his balance.

“Neddie, at the very least tell me if she rouges her nipples, please.”

The color was rapidly draining from Ned’s cheeks with his head bent down so far. He hiccoughed and nearly lost his footing again. “With this ghastly dress, it’s hard to tell if she even has bubbies.” He stumbled a bit and then plopped down on the floor before her. “I can’t even be assured she has lips. But, by God, I believe there is a true beauty hiding in these dowdy duds, if only she would raise up her eyes! Bunty, poke her shoulder. Make her look up.”

“I should indeed love to poke her, Ned—but in the shoulder is a bit perverse, even for me.”

The raucous laughter brought another soldier up, a major. “You two are making complete clodpoles of yourselves!” The major shook his head, and standing behind her boldly placed his hand upon her shoulder to keep her seated. “You are both far too into your cups to be of any service to this sweet young thing. Bugger off and leave her to me!”

Moments passed that felt like years while the whimpering in her head continued unabated and her heart pounded. Afraid to raise her eyes, she was flushed with embarrassment, only gradually realizing that the bawdy comments had ceased and the area around her was now silent. She held her breath, though, knowing that she was still not alone. Someone stood before her, a form leaning over her and large enough that it blocked out much of the light provided from the wall sconces behind.

She slowly looked up, first at his dusty and beaten-looking riding boots (My stars, what big feet ), and then at the muscled legs encased in white trousers ( Must be a lifelong horseman). She blushed, realizing that she should not be gazing quite so intently at those. Next came the impressive barrel chest, the fine masculine shoulders made broader by epaulettes wide enough to serve dinner upon, a scarlet military jacket with its sash, golden buttons, braids, and medals…lots of medals ( Oh no, another soldier! ) His gloved hand rested on the hilt of a beautiful dress sword.

When her eyes finally reached his face, she saw the kindest bluest eyes she had ever beheld, a prominent jaw with a crooked, easy smile, tousled muddy-colored blond hair… With a gasp, she realized that it was the celebrated colonel, the man she continually fantasized over, her hero from the street. She sat bolt upright.

Huh.

In stunned silence, she glanced around to see that the other men had fled, and she sat alone, staring up at that tender face. It was unbelievable, her shock and his sudden presence crushing her ability to speak.

Huh.

He spoke to her at length in French, appearing surprised when she blinked back in wonder. He laughed a little and straightened up, looked around the room, and then stroked his chin. He then began speaking in Spanish, and after that a language she had never heard before.

After running off the drunken soldiers with unsubstantiated threats and one menacing eyebrow, Fitzwilliam turned to the beauty before him and bowed. If he imagined she was lovely through a blinding sleet storm or from the frosted window of a carriage or from across a ballroom, she was breathtaking up close, staring at him like a fairy-tale princess awaking from a trance. A gradually awakening Sleeping Beauty, perhaps, her eyelashes slowly fluttering open.

Then, her full, red, luscious lips opened to pronounce what sounded like a muted “Duh?”

He winced. Oh, shit. A horrible fear gripped his gut that Darcy would be right again and she might be yet another brainless twit. He would never live this down. Never. His heart sank further as she revisited her first observation with an even louder “Duh?”

He spoke to her eloquently in French, apologizing for his boldness in approaching and for the inebriated officers, all the time admiring her beauty if not her conversation. She was beginning to blink more rapidly, at least, her squint appearing more intelligent, or was that just wishful thinking on his part? She certainly did not look Spanish, but he tried that, too. Her eyes opened wider. He finally tried Danish. She shrugged her shoulders. Perhaps the poor darling was truly mentally impaired.