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

“She’s fine, merely her usual distress at being among such a large crowd. This promises to be a trying come out for us all.”

Fitzwilliam saw the bottle of wine and two glasses in Darcy’s hand. “I hope that’s liquor you have there and that it is intended for me.” Reaching over, he brushed aside the glass his cousin proffered, preferring the whole bottle. He took a long, hard draw.

“Did I come out here too early or too late?”

“Damned if I know.” Fitzwilliam exhaled loudly and took another draw from the bottle, finally remembering to pour some into Darcy’s glass. They stood in silence for a while.

“She claims to be promised to another. Can you credit that? Promised to another when we were…” He looked quickly away before he continued. “Well, forget the rest of that. I just cannot believe this has happened! Something is very wrong.”

“Did she say who the man is?”

“Dr. Anthony Milagros.” Fitzwilliam rolled his eyes. Darcy winced, knowing Milagros’s attraction to the opposite sex.

“Go after her, man!”

His cousin considered that recourse for only a brief moment then shook his head. “Never, brat! I am a confirmed bachelor, my own man, set in my ways and too old to change.”

“You are only two and thirty. My own father was married at four and thirty. You have years left. Do not give up so easily.”

“Goddamn it, Darcy, I do have some pride.”

“Oh, you stupid idiot. When it comes to love, pride always takes second place.”

“I have never had to chase a woman, never, and certainly have no intention to begin now!” With that, Fitzwilliam stormed away. “Beg for that harridan! Ha! I have not enough interest in her to even pursue this any further. End of discussion.”

Fitzwilliam leaned against Darcy’s carriage, an angry lover assessing his rival’s townhouse, the freezing rain fueling his fury. And the townhouse was an awesome sight, more a mansion, one of the largest, grandest homes in London, exceeded by few others, including Darcy’s and Catherine’s. “Shit. I knew the bastard was rich, but not this rich.”

His loyal batman and driver, O’Malley, grunted his opinion. “Ah, well, don’ be so hard on yerself, Colonel. Ya have good points—God bless me, even a busted clock is right twice the day. No, truly. Yer a good horseman, the very best I’ve ever seen, and yer kind to unfortunates… and ya have grand teeth. Oh, the fancy doctor may be filthy rich, an’ dark and handsome an’ all, and irresistible to the ladies, and…” Fitzwilliam’s cold, hard stare stopped the litany of Anthony Milagros’s greatness.

Unable to tear his eyes from his colonel’s O’Malley took a large swig from his flask and trembled violently from the potent brew. He took out his pipe. “I’ll not say another word. Me lips are sealed.”

“Bloody hell…” Fitzwilliam cursed as he made his way across the road, and then again as he opened the gate. He began the climb up the granite steps, hissing “shit, shit, shit,” on each one. He looked around as he approached the massive and elaborate double-door entryway. “Bloody hell.” Fine, money evidently will not influence him. I cannot possibly kill him. What are my other options? He pounded on the door knocker.

An ancient butler answered, terror registering on his face within moments of Fitzwilliam demanding entrance. Without saying a word, the trembling servant turned, motioning for Fitzwilliam to follow, slowly leading the bizarre little parade at a snail’s pace into a magnificently ornate receiving parlor. Finally facing the colonel he announced, in dreadful tones, that the doctor would be informed of his presence.

The splendid room was lit by the fires within two huge marble fireplaces, one on each end of the room, along with several gilt branches of candles strategically placed, Fitzwilliam sneered, for the sole beatific illumination of the highly expensive furnishings, rare tapestries, and paintings. It worked brilliantly. He walked to the front bank of French windows and turned to get the full effect, sweeping the room with his eyes. He exhaled loudly.

Shit.

Within the elegant mansion somewhere, an unsuspecting gentleman ignored the outdoor gloom and rain. To him, it was a lovely Tuesday evening in winter, crisp, clean and enchanting. Dr. Anthony Milagros had recently returned home after spending a productive but tiring day at his hospital and had put aside the disturbing visions his dearest friend’s words had conjured up the day before.

“Bah!” He laughed at his baseless fears, rebuked his own reflection in the dressing-room mirror. He had reacted much too emotionally. Amanda had, of course, been correct, although that would be a first for her. The colonel was a highly decorated, nationally respected military leader, was lionized as a hero, a role model, a modern-day knight in shining armor. He would not act like some rabid dog defending a bone. Would he…?

No! Of course not. Ridiculous.

Anthony laughed softly as he thought back to the Sunday just past when he and Amanda had had their tiny “fracas.” It was amusing to think of, really. In fact, as he now remembered it, with two days of hysteria as a cushion, he had been quite understanding during the entire confrontation—tolerant, sophisticated, exceedingly sympathetic.

“Have you lost your mind?!”

“Anthony, let me explain.”

“He will call me out, Amanda. I’m a dead man. I will never again see my family, never again see Madrid. Look at these hands… look at them. They are beautiful and perfect, slim, elegant. And to think I will never again play the violin.”

“You hate the violin.” She dutifully complied with his request and studied his hands. “You play very badly.”

“That is beside the point! I will have no time left to practice, will I? I will be dead.”

They had stood outside the small chapel both attended for early Sunday mass, the only place in London that allowed Catholic services. People scurried past, frightened by his extraordinary and spirited outburst, whispering and pointing, crossing themselves. Amanda dragged him by the elbow back into the church and deep into the south transept.

The chief of physicians at St. Theresa’s Hospital in London paced back and forth. “I cannot breathe,” he announced in amazement, then stopped. “Perhaps this is a heart attack?” He pressed his hand onto his chest. “I think I can hear my mother’s voice.”

“I do not understand what upsets you so.”

“Oh, dios mio mi vida, pardon my thoughtlessness,” he hissed. “You have told a man who desires you, whose profession it is to kill people, I might add, that I am your lover. Is this not correct?”

“Keep your voice down!” Amanda swept her glance around the main room of the church, concerned that they were in danger of being overheard, then returned her attention quickly to her agitated friend. “All right, Anthony, you are partially correct, in a way, yes…”

“In a way?” A ray of hope, that. Perhaps he had misunderstood her. “In what way am I mistaken, querida?” His long dark lashes were blinking furiously.

“Well, we had a somewhat intimate moment between us…oh, it was heavenly, Anthony. However, when he expressed a desire to court me, I am afraid I rather panicked, may have led him to believe something of a relationship was occurring between you and me.”

He took a few moments to run a bejeweled, elegant hand through his curling locks then perused his cuticles closely. It was a while before he could calmly express himself. He decided he would speak slowly to her in the hope that she could grasp the gravity of what she had done.

“Well, as you know, I am acquainted with this Colonel Fitzwilliam of yours, Amanda. I have been in meetings with him at the War Office concerning his wounded soldiers. He possesses a look and manner not unlike your American grizzly bear. That is, he can be short-tempered, ruthless, aggressive, self-confident due to his rather formidable build. Also, he has fairly coarse hair.” He watched her eyes closely for understanding, for a glint of comprehension. “He is vicious, pitiless, and ferocious.” She still did not respond. “I like him enormously. But”—his hand went up before him to silence her—“I have no intention of willingly becoming the object of one of his vendettas. He is as unrelenting as he is merciless. He always gets what he wants, Amanda, always, no matter whom he must annihilate.”

Anthony searched her face to see if this speech had affected her, penetrated her thick American skull. But no, he saw only hesitation in her sad, blinking brown eyes. She looked like a spaniel. He leaned forward and spoke louder to compensate. “Do you not comprehend me, querida??” Perhaps her hearing had gone the way of her brains.

She flapped her hands for him to be quiet. “Anthony, please cease being quite so Spanish. Compose yourself.” He spat out an indignant harrumph at that. “Dearest, are you certain we speak of the same man? Richard has been all that is gentle and kind with me. Well, aside from his furious explosion on the balcony. I do not believe that he will pursue me if he believes us betrothed, and I surely had to stop his coming to Penwood, to that house. No, I am confident that, at heart, he is a most honorable man.”

“ Betrothed? ” In his burgeoning terror, Anthony heard nothing else. “Tell me, do I have little beads of sweat forming upon my brow? No? I swear that I feel definite moisture about my hairline.” He brought his silken handkerchief up to mop his brow then inhaled deeply. “So, my darling—tell me quickly to lessen the sting— did you, or did you not, inform him that we were betrothed? Yes or no.”