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

Dramatically, a document was withdrawn from the gentleman’s inside pocket. He nervously cleared his throat. Ahem. “Charges have been filed with the local magistrate demanding immediate resumption of custody of the child of the late Sir Augustus Penrod to Lady Marguerite Penrod, his mother. We have reason to believe that the child in question was kidnapped”—the crowd gasped—“two evenings past and was brought here.” Smatterings of appreciation emboldened the man. He turned a dignified and self-righteous face to the crowd.

“How dare you toss about such inciting accusations!” Darcy barked. “I should have you thrown into the street, you and your pack of apes!” The crowd grew unhappy with this response, judging it to be possibly undignified and still being unsure of their collective position. A few disparaging remarks were thrown into the air.

Meanwhile, Fitzwilliam had stepped up and snatched the court order from the clerk’s hands. He read it through thoroughly.

“Take this gang of thugs and leave my property immediately,” Darcy commanded.

“No, sir, I can assure you that with the safety of a child involved, we will not.” There was a smattering of applause. “I have the law on my side, and you, sir, should have a care for what you say.” He was a truly proud man at that moment. He smiled smugly.

Fitzwilliam folded up the order and stuffed it into his coat pocket. Casting a murderous look at the clerk, he elbowed his way before Darcy. The clerk’s smug smile quickly evaporated; he was suddenly intimidated, tongue tied in the presence of a minor celebrity. “How dare you speak to this fine gentleman in such a manner!” Fitzwilliam barked. “Have you no shame? Do you have any idea who this man is? Do you? Well, sir, I shall tell you. Why his great, great, great, well, many greats I can assure you of that, grandfather was executed as a traitor by none other than the magnificent Henry VIII himself!”

That brought a confused murmur from the crowd—impressed but confused.

“Not helping… not helping…” whispered Darcy in a loud aside.

“No child has been kidnapped,” Fitzwilliam continued contemptuously—unfazed—loud. “The little boy is here with his mother, my wife, sir, my wife, I say, who was detained to help with the birth of this very man’s son!”—Oooohs and aaaahs and several “How very nices”—“An act of pure Christian charity, if ever I heard of one!”—“Yesssssss,” it sounded as if a snake was loose among the masses—“There was no intent to kidnap, no nefarious plan, only the concerned love of one mother for another and for that woman’s unborn child. My God, you should hang your head, sir, for making such a slanderous indictment! And in England.” Fitzwilliam’s explanation was repeated throughout the crowd for the benefit of those in the back who were straining to hear. At that point. the general mood began to solidify.

Not to be outdone, Darcy then elbowed his way forward—handsome, elegant, and superior, an Adonis. The women sighed. “And do you know who this man thinks he is… pardon me… do you know who this man is?” he pronounced loudly. People in the back began to bob and weave for a better look. Several then began to recognize the out-of-uniform Fitzwilliam, word spread, and the excitement grew.

“Yes, that’s right. None other than The Waterloo Colonel himself!”—“Nooooo!!!”— “Yesssss! The man who risked life and limb, in point of fact, was very nearly mortally wounded in the horror that was Waterloo. A lone soldier fighting for King and country, for the very freedoms we all take for granted as our birthright, willingly sacrificing everything, well, nearly, anyway, in the name of His Royal Highness King George and our beloved and sacred kingdom—our blessed land— our England.” The crowd began to nod vigorously and applaud. Many wiped away a tear or two.

A vendor on the street merrily commenced selling hot chestnuts from his cart, tuppence a bag.

***

While this altercation was taking place, a tall, white feather could be seen bobbing its way through the crowd, accompanied by people yelping, shrieking, and jumping to the side when it passed. It was Fitzwilliam who first heard the traditional verbal tirade that always preceded this particular visitor. “Grab your codpiece,” he groaned, tunneling his hair into tall peaks. “We’re doomed.”

“Out of my way, you common ruffian! Who are your people, you jackanapes?! Are you all escapees from some type of penal colony? Am I to be jostled and set upon by a confluence of desperadoes who have not as yet grasped even the merest concept of hygiene?”