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

He took Mrs. Fitzherbert’s hand and kissed it gently, thanking her once again, then backed down from the carriage door and smiled up at them both. “Please tell my wife I will come to her as soon as I can. I will be there sometime tonight, though, I promise.” He stepped away, and the footman closed the door, the four horsemen who would ride on either side of the carriage bringing their mounts into position. Through the back window, he could see the two old friends as the carriage drove off, giggling and laughing over their great triumph.

Chapter 15

It was much later that evening by the time he finished speaking with Wellington, his aunt’s house already closed and in darkness, everyone abed. Fitzwilliam was waiting anxiously for Jamison to bring Amanda down into Catherine’s overly ornate family parlor. The night and the whiskey had gotten away from him while he and his general discussed old battles, the Ordnance Board, the future, and a hundred other topics. He kept delaying his leave-taking until the peer finally threw him out, muttering about how much more courage it seemed to take the soldier to face his little bride than it had taken him to face the army of Napoleon. A slightly inebriated colonel finally climbed into his borrowed carriage and called up to the driver to take him to Catherine’s.

As he waited, he looked about himself at the ostentation—the flamboyant, imported furnishings, the crystal and gilt, the priceless statues and artwork—all the incredible opulence that constantly surrounded his family and, especially, his aunt. He would never admit it to a soul, but he loved this gaudy old room.

For eleven years, he had experienced a life that the aristocracy could never imagine, and it had changed him. Commanding both viscounts and pig farmers, fighting alongside butchers and thieves, dining with emperors, sleeping with whores and countesses, he had come to realize that the Americans were right about one thing—there really was little difference between people.

He remembered the laughter and love between the soldiers and their women in camp—poor people who had nothing in life but each other. He certainly could not settle for less in his own life. He wanted the same tender love that any lowly cottager would. He needed the same sense of family and security taken for granted by any tavern keeper. There was only one woman for him, and if he had to wait a lifetime for her, he would do so. She was his heart and soul, his partner and closest friend, the first true love of his life, and the last.

He stopped before a portrait of his father and his father’s two sisters, Catherine and Anne. Catherine, as the eldest, was seated in the forefront, a countess already at twenty with the hauteur and superior look that had made her famous—fair-haired, porcelain-skinned, and incredibly beautiful. Behind her on her right was Anne Fitzwilliam, Darcy’s mother. Anne would have been nearly eighteen years old, with the dark hair and aristocratic beauty that Darcy inherited. He remembered her as a sweet and happy woman, gentle with the children and always deferring to her husband, often laughing as she hugged her son to her. Her warm eyes were softer and kinder than Catherine’s.

To the left of Catherine stood his father, also with dark hair and piercing blue eyes, an incredibly good-looking young Corinthian, just eleven months Catherine’s junior. Fitzwilliam swelled with pride at the sight, wished he could have known him in his wild youth. He was ridiculously proud of this father, who looked high-spirited and eager to take on the world. The three had been close in age but vastly different in temperaments.

This trio before him were links in a chain that reached as far back as the Conqueror, links in a chain of which he was a part, taking it into the future through his children and their children.

Of a sudden, he felt very proud and very humbled.

***

Amanda entered quietly, relief at the sight of him flooding through her—his size, his broad chest and shoulders always making her pulse quicken. The thought struck the moment she saw him, and her heart and her path were clear as glass before her. “’Whither thou goest, I shall go, where thou lodgest, I shall lodge, thy people shall be my people, thy God my God,’” she whispered, causing him to turn.

“Hello,” she said simply.

He nodded, the sudden boulder in his throat impeding his speech.

“I was expecting you to come earlier.” He was pale and looked slightly ill. “Are you all right, Richard?”

“Yes.” His voice cracked, and he cleared his throat. His first sight of her had robbed him of breath. His second had almost robbed him of speech. She looked gloriously disheveled. In fact, she had hurried downstairs without her robe, not even taking time for slippers. It was only moments before that she had finally fallen asleep, exhausted and depressed, giving up on his ever coming over that evening even as Lady Catherine had assured her of his continued love for her.