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

Still somewhat suspicious, Amanda looked at the regal dragon. “Why are you being so kind to me? You dislike me, or have you forgotten?”

Catherine’s eyes twinkled. “Do not flatter yourself, dear. My feelings for you are not nearly that engaged. However, I do love both of my nephews as if I had borne them myself. Darcy has married and is happy, blissfully, so it appears, in spite of all of my dire predictions. He was a good man before marrying Elizabeth and, as hard as this is to admit, he has emerged an even better one because of that union.

“I would like to see that happen to Richard. Will you come with me to my home? We can talk there about what needs to be done.”

Amanda sat back on the sofa for a long time, looking first confused, then tired, then resigned. “Yes. Let me get our things.” She suddenly held her hand over her mouth and groaned. “Might I hope that you have macaroons at your home?”

Fitzwilliam paced nervously in the huge visitor’s parlor of Rosings House, twirling his badly battered military hat around and studying every knickknack and picture, none of it registering in his conscious mind. He wondered if he would see Amanda today. It had been two days. Over two days, actually—fifty-three hours and twenty-five minutes. He wondered what he would say to her if he did see her. A very small part of him was still furious at her words and vowed never to speak with her again. However, the entire remainder of him missed her so greatly that he had to fight the impulse to run bellowing through the house in search of her.

He hadn’t eaten or slept in their time apart, and the previous night had been the worst night of his life.

“Hello, Richard.” He heard her gentle voice, and his heart constricted in pain. He turned quickly around.

“Hello, ’manda.”

They stood in an awkward silence, not wanting to look at each other but too weak to look away.

“You look tired, Richard,” she said softly, and he nodded.

“I haven’t slept very well.” Not sterling conversation, but it was a beginning. “You also look tired…” His sentence ended on a somewhat hopeful note, then he berated himself for being so shallow. Seeing the dark circles under her eyes and her pale lips, he decided to speak with Catherine about ensuring that she ate enough and rested.

“Lady Catherine says she has developed a plan to regain custody of Harry. She seems very convinced this will work.”

“Well, she averages five delusional days a week, so I wouldn’t put much stock in it.” He was attempting to add a comical tone to his voice but made sure to remain distant and polite. “Is he is still with you, then? They haven’t taken him?”

“Yes, praise God. Lady Catherine has been calling in all of her favors for us. Evidently, she really is related to Lord Liverpool. Your family never ceases to amaze. It has given us more time to fight this.”

“Capital, excellent.” He handled his hat nervously. “If anyone can command favors, it is certainly Catherine.” Part of the hat braiding came off in his hand. “By the way, ’manda, about the other day,” he looked around and then stuffed the braiding into his pocket. “I don’t want you to think I would actually take our child from you. I was angry and lost control of my emotions, very unlike me, really. I know you have little reason to trust me now, but I vow I will support you and whatever decision you make about the baby.”

“I, too, am sorry for what I said, Richard.” She seemed to struggle with the right words to say. “It seems I deliberately went out of my way to say what would hurt you. Forgive me. I would never, ever consider our time together to have been a mistake. Our child is precious to me. And you will make a most wonderful father.”

The grim lines by his mouth softened, but they had said so many things to each other. It perhaps was too soon to forget, even if they could forgive.

“We do seem to have some pretty powerful arguments, do we not?”

Unable to answer, she stared intently at her clutched hands as if fascinated by them. He watched as her emotions effected changes across her beautiful face. “Yes. We both seem to possess rather overly passionate natures.”

My God, look at her. A man would swim an ocean for a just moment with her. And he knew instinctively that he would never leave her, would never love another. He would willingly wait a lifetime for her.

“Darcy believes our problems stem chiefly from the simple fact we are both legally insane and that we will most likely blow each other’s brains out within the year.” His heart was pumping wildly, and all he could think of was the smell of her hair and her soft skin and her tenderness when she made love to him.

She agreed sadly and shrugged, then looked down again to her hands.

“He also declares that there are no two people in the world better suited for each other.”

Quickly, she looked up, joy flooding her face with color. “Did he? Did he really?” She sounded so reassured. “Oh, well, I must say that was very sweet of him.”

“I am not quite sure he meant that as a compliment, Amanda.”

At that moment, Catherine glided into the room. “Ah, the lovebirds! How wonderful to see you both speaking so civilly to each other. So much better than all that screeching incoherently at the top of your lungs, don’t you think?” She smiled beatifically at the stiff, awkward, and miserably unhappy duo.

“Well, that’s enough of that. I hate to break up this heartwarming scene, but I believe our carriage is arriving outside, Richard. Amanda, you will wait for us here. If we are successful, which I believe we will be, we may finally settle this custody issue in your favor. Are you ready, Nephew?”

“Yes, I am ready, Aunt Catherine.” He placed a hand on his hip and stood facing her. “But for what exactly am I ready? What is this plan you have devised? And believe me, I await in stark terror for your reply. You have no idea how it chills me to the very marrow of my bones to go along with one of your schemes, unknowing of what to expect.”

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.”