Darcy and Fitzwilliam: A Tale of a Gentleman and an Officer

Fitzwilliam returned upstairs and stood helplessly outside Lizzy’s door, wanting to help but ridiculously terrified of venturing inside. He was still holding Harry in his arms. “Is Mrs. Darling going to die, Colonel Fitz?” Harry’s face was hidden in Fitzwilliam’s neck, his little fists clutching the colonel whenever he heard Lizzy cry out.

“No, Harry. Mrs. Darcy is not going to die.” The poor little boy should not have to worry about such adult things, but Richard felt it important to be close at hand if Amanda needed him. After all, he reasoned to himself, he had endured the horrors of his own army gone mad at Badajoz, had fought the Frogs in hand-to-hand combat at Salamanca, was a hero of Waterloo—no, he would not retreat.

“You see, Harry,” he began, “childbirth is a mystical and spiritual experience for a woman, son, and though it may be somewhat painful, a woman doesn’t mind the pain. In fact, she welcomes it, greets it with open arms, because she will have a child like you to love when it is over.”

Just then they heard Lizzy viciously scream, “Never again… never again… If he ever attempts to touch me, I shall kill him, I shall cleave his tongue…”

Ignoring this, a rapidly pacing Richard continued, his voice louder to cover her words. “As I was saying, Harry, although women are typically timid and not physically strong as men are, they are by nature gentle and soft spoken, compassionate and selfless. That is why the good Lord gave this responsibility to them. Childbirth is a joy which completes a woman. It is what gives her life meaning and purpose…”

Elizabeth then let out another, louder scream which included a string of obscenities that had not had its equal since his dear friend Major Patrick Harrison had been shot in the fanny during a duel of honor outside of Copenhagen.

“…or maybe not. Time to call retreat, Harry.”

***

He went downstairs and took a chair in the smaller front parlor, near a window within view of the doorway so that he could look both outside and into the long hallway should someone come. He settled the exhausted Harry onto his lap, cuddling the child’s head and kissing his soft cool hair. He then set about removing the child’s shoes and coat.

“Are you and Mummy really married?” An important lesson learned, Fitzwilliam—little children have big ears. Harry was struggling to keep his eyes open while still managing to clutch his tattered cloth horsey tightly in alternating arms as his coat sleeves were being tugged off.

“Yes, Harry. Your mother and I married, but we had to keep it a secret, even from you.”

“Then you’re my poppa now?” Harry lifted his face up to the colonel and smiled with such a sincere look of love and adoration that it gave Richard’s heart a wrenching tug.

“Yes, Harry. I am your poppa now. And you are my son.”

Harry stretched his arms around Richard’s neck for a hug. He sighed in his contentment. “Good.” Then he yawned.

Tears welled in Richard’s eyes, his hold tightening on the child. “Well, why don’t you snuggle in and try to get some rest? You look very tired, and I’ve heard these things can take a while. If you like, I can tell you some more of my stories about that horrible little Frenchman.”

Chapter 5

After two miserable hours, Darcy had walked off his anger and was turning onto St. James Street, although still several blocks from his house. His hands were thrust deep into his pockets while his thoughts were miles away from where they had started, the anger that had propelled him into madness now completely dissipated to be replaced by a mental assessment of Elizabeth’s upcoming final month. He shook his head in wonder. How in hell would they survive? His glance drifted far ahead, down the street to where their house stood, spying in the distance what appeared to be the bright light from the front foyer of their town home. He stopped dead in his tracks. I must have left the door open. Oh, what an idiot! He quickened his pace.

As he came closer, he could hear panic in the raised voices coming from the vicinity of his house, the shouted commands in the still night. Apprehension began to grip at him. The figure of his butler, Winters, was recognizable on the top stair, pointing to the left as a footman went running in that direction. Then he saw another one of his footmen change direction as soon as he spotted him, and was fast approaching, waving his arms frantically.

“Mr. Darcy, come quick. It’s the baby!”

“What about the baby?” Darcy bolted past the gasping footman. “Is Mrs. Darcy all right?”

“The baby is coming now, sir.”

Darcy was startled at first then greatly confused, his panic intensifying. “But we have four weeks left…” By this time, another figure was out the door, off running to the right, when Winters spotted Darcy and waved to him from the threshold.