Jack Caldwell - The Three Colonels

“How lovely! You were always the most charming liar, Sir John. But time is no lady’s friend.”

“Not so. You are as you have always been,” he said with false sincerity. If you force me to compliment you, at least I shall do it my way. Your time is done. You may rely upon it.

Lady Uppercross allowed the comment to pass. “You have been missed… by everyone in Town. Say that you are not to return so soon to Wales!”

Buford knew what her words meant. He hesitated, forming an answer that would serve to dismiss his former lover without causing a scene, when the room grew suddenly silent. Turning, he heard small gasps and whispered comments. Then his eyes took in the entrance, and he almost swore.

Fitzwilliam Darcy was walking in with three of the loveliest women he had ever seen. He thought he recognized Miss Georgiana Darcy amongst them, but it did not signify. No one could take their eyes off the glorious creature on Darcy’s arm. It was not that she was classically beautiful like her sister; she was not. There was something else—a power, an intelligence, a confidence, a complete assurance of the affection she held for and received from her husband that everyone, love her or hate her, had to admire in Mrs. Darcy.

Fitz is right. She is regal yet real. Oh, Darcy, I hate you! How can you be so fortunate?

“Oh, my!”

Buford turned. He had forgotten Lady Uppercross.

“Miss Bingley will be furious,” she laughed.

Seeing his opening, Buford bowed. “Lady Uppercross, a good evening to you.” He then crossed to the Darcy party.

He spent a few minutes making the acquaintance of Mrs. Darcy who, upon closer inspection, was quite beautiful. Miss Kitty Bennet was judged a bit unpolished but would do for a parson’s wife—some very fortunate parson. Buford was struck by the improvement to Miss Georgiana, for never had she seemed to be at such ease. He knew his reputation was not yet fully repaired, so Buford saved Darcy the concern of watching him dance with his relations by only wishing them a good evening and excusing himself.

Buford spent the next half hour strolling about, greeting a few friends here and there, but mainly observing all in the rooms. Almack’s was awash in color, but the gaiety was lost on him. He only beheld the sameness in character of most of the ladies there—either mercenary or uninhibited—sometimes both.

What a waste to come here! he thought. I only see what I do not want or cannot have. Thinking that a spot of punch might revive his spirits, he moved to the refreshments table.

Before he could reach his goal, he was presented with the sight of Miss Bingley in conversation with two other ladies.

I say, her dress is the same color as my sash. How singular! It is certainly striking against her pale skin.

It was only then that he became aware that Miss Bingley was not only pale but also distressed. Her arms were moving in a distracted manner.

What are those vultures doing to her?

Suddenly, Miss Bingley turned in his direction and almost collided with him. His pardon died on his lips as he heard her whimper as she fled towards the library. Buford stood frozen after she entered the library, then impulsively he went in search of the lady’s relations.

“Mrs. Hurst—”

“Colonel Buford! Pardon me, I meant, Sir John! Good evening, sir. Allow me to offer you congratulations on your knighthood. May I introduce you to my friend?”

“Please,” Buford said politely.

“This is Miss Bennet, Mrs. Bingley’s sister from Hertfordshire. Mary, this is Colonel Sir John Buford.”

“Charmed, miss,” he said somewhat distractedly. “Mrs. Hurst, do not be alarmed, but I must suggest that you repair to the library as soon as may be. Miss Bingley has taken ill.”

Mrs. Hurst blanched. “Oh dear! Sir John, have you seen her?”

“I only observed her going into the library. She appeared ill,” said Buford as kindly as he could.

Mrs. Hurst could not misunderstand the meaning of his words. “Oh, no! I knew it, I knew it,” she said under her breath.

Miss Bennet looked about her, her expression becoming stern. “Beauty and goodness do not always go hand-in-hand, especially in Town.”

Buford looked at Miss Bennet, revising his opinion of her. “Please, allow me.” With that, he escorted the two ladies across the room to the library.

As they prepared to enter the room, he said to Mrs. Hurst, “If I may be of assistance to you or Miss Bingley—”

“No, thank you, sir. You have been too kind.”

“It was an honor to be of service to the lady.”

With that, he took his leave of them. Later he would learn that the Bingleys left Almack’s through a private door very early in the evening. He could not help but overhear the sneers over that. Buford was disgusted with the whole business. He had spent the last few years with war and death and waste; the last thing he wanted to see at home was similar ugliness.

“Sir John?”

He was startled out of his thoughts. “Hmm?”

It was the vicar. “It is time, sir.”

“Excellent,” he said as he rose, straightening his jacket. “Well, gentlemen,” he said to his friends, “shall we get to it?”

It was a bright January morning, and Colonel Richard Fitzwilliam was doing his best not to insult the lady seated to his left at the wedding breakfast, but he was in danger of failing. Miss Halifax was a rather comely maiden who seemed to be quite taken with him. Looks were not everything, however. What set the colonel’s teeth on edge was her insipid conversation, held in a manner and tone of speech she undoubtedly considered cultured but, to Richard’s ears, sounded like the squawking of chickens.

“Is not everything lovely? Everything is so charming! I do adore weddings! What is your opinion, Colonel?”

“I like it of all things.”

“I do believe that our Lord was very wise to invent marriage. Such happiness—and children! Do you like children, Colonel?”

How blatant can you be, woman? “Of course.”

“I should love to have children, should I marry. Two, I think. One would show a lack of feeling and three… well, I do so dislike odd numbers. Are not odd numbers so very—odd?” Miss Halifax giggled at her own jest.

“Indeed.”

“And more than three—heaven forbid! I cannot see how ladies can have more than three children. It has an air of”—her voice dropped to a whisper—“unseemliness.” She batted her eyelashes at him.

Someone put me out of my misery. Take a sword and run me through now.

The Darcys and the Tuckers sat at the table with the pair and regarded Richard’s predicament with amusement. Taking pity on him, Darcy whispered something in his wife’s ear, and she turned to speak to the colonel.

“Richard!” said Elizabeth. “While you are in Town, you must come by and visit your young cousin. He has grown much since your last visit, I declare.”

Richard was puzzled—How much could he have grown in two days?—until he recognized the rescue offered him. “Ah, I have been remiss in calling upon young Master Bennet. Forgive me, Mrs. Darcy. Regimental duties, I am afraid. I shall correct my failure at the first opportunity. Fatherhood suits you, Darcy, I think.”

Mr. Darcy nodded at his cousin. “Indeed it does, as long as one has a wife of sensibility and sense to manage the household.” He touched Elizabeth’s hand, and she rewarded her spouse with a brilliant smile. “’Tis a requirement to deal with the Fitzwilliam Curse.”

“Curse, Mr. Darcy?” asked Miss Halifax. “What can you mean?”

“Oh my, do you not know?” asked Elizabeth, eyes growing wide. “Being the wife of a Fitzwilliam or a Darcy must have such extraordinary sources of happiness necessarily attached to her situation, that a lady could, upon the whole, have no cause to repine, were it not for the curse. For centuries it has been thus. But the viscountess bears it well, and Mr. Darcy trusts that I shall do likewise.”

“But, Mrs. Darcy, dare I ask the nature of this curse? Please, I do not wish to offend, but I am full curious!”

Elizabeth turned her fine eyes to her husband. “Mr. Darcy, shall I?”

“Very well, madam,” replied her husband grimly. “She should be forewarned. I trust she shall not find it too distressful.”

Elizabeth looked around the table and leaned forward. “Well, my dear,” she continued to the girl in a low voice, “it seems that the wives of Fitzwilliams—my husband is one on his mother’s side—always have at least three children, and many times more, and always an odd number of them!” Her victim’s eyes grew wide, as did Mary’s, but for a different reason: She knew full well that Mr. Darcy had only one sister. “Oh, the scandal, the unseemliness,” Elizabeth put her hand to her eyes in a dramatic fashion, “but such is my lot in life!”

“Forgive me, my dear,” consoled Darcy.

“Do not speak of it, Husband,” she responded, taking his hand in hers for a moment. “I shall endeavor to persevere.”

Miss Halifax colored. Whether from shock at learning such a horrible secret or the mortification of being the butt of a joke, no one could say, for she chose that moment to excuse herself.

“Forgive me, I must attend my mother. Umm… good day,” she mumbled and left the table. It was well, because Richard could not contain himself much longer.

“Fitzwilliam Curse? Oh, that is rich!” he sputtered, trying to contain his laugh.

“Happy to have been of service, Colonel,” said Elizabeth, an eyebrow arched. “I hope we did not offend.”