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

He first loosened his neck scarf and waistcoat, then sat erectly upon a chair to remove his boots. Next he stood and unbuttoned his shirt and cuffs, careful as always to place any jewelry on the nightstand beside the bed. His waistcoat, scarf, and shirt were next removed in that order, folded and draped with the utmost care across the back of his chair. After unbuttoning his breeches, he sat at the edge of the bed and yanked them off, folded them, and laid them neatly across her old dresser.

“Oh, bravo.” She clapped, grinning impishly.

He turned and arched his eyebrow at her.

“You zany scamp—you have unhinged me with your recklessness.”

His eyebrow went somehow higher.

“You unbuttoned your pants before you sat on the edge of the bed, and not after, as is your usual order. Such extreme behavior—whatever possessed you to such flights of abandon?”

“Are you quite finished?” His lips twitched with humor as he lowered himself back onto the bed and let out a heartfelt sigh. “Now please be quiet. You are exhausted and need your sleep. All I ask is one uninterrupted hour, Elizabeth.”

“Did you see who was at the grave site?”

He groaned.

She was snuggling farther down into the covers while motioning toward her aching back, so he slipped his hand down within her chemise and kneaded and rubbed until her tense muscles began to relax, the warmth and firmness of the back rub quickly beginning to loosen all the anxiety of the sad morning. Giving her shoulder a quick kiss when he finished, he pulled his wife’s backside against him, and they then easily fell into their normal spooning position from home, fingers intertwined together, arms laced, and hugs secured.

“Did you hear what I asked you?”

“Yessss.” He sighed, no immediate sleep in sight. “I imagine you are speaking of Lady Catherine and Fitzwilliam. I saw them only briefly, and they were gone before I could approach.” In truth, he felt very guilty that he had not contacted her directly during her illness, only receiving reports from Fitzwilliam and her doctors. The sight of her there today shamed him and brought to the forefront of his mind the folly of holding this grudge. Life was short, he was learning, and never to be taken for granted.

“She looked very pale and fragile, did she not?”

“Yes, she did.” She could feel him shift uneasily. “I’m not that surprised that she was there, really,” he said quietly. “In some fuzzy area of her brain she has accepted that you are part of her family, and family obligations are paramount to her.”

They were silent for a moment. He pulled another cover over them.

“Did you remove your stockings?”

“Elizabeth, I beg of you to be quiet.”

She was, for a moment.

“If you don’t remove them, your feet will become very warm, and then you shall have nightmares. And your boots will smell.”

His teeth ground for an instant, but he contained himself. “I never have nightmares—largely due to the fact that I seldom sleep anymore. And my boots do not smell.”

They were silent. He suddenly sat up and removed his stockings, again placing them with the utmost precision atop her dresser.

He’d make a fine valet, she thought briefly. Best not to voice that opinion out loud.

They were silent.

“Did you see Caroline Bingley?”

Darcy fought back an unpleasant curse. He was learning that infinite patience needed to walk hand in hand with marriage. “Yes, dear, I did. Will you be all right with Caroline there today?” he whispered.

“Yes, of course.” It was so quiet in their little room. “The real question is, will you?”

Gently he turned her chin, tilting her head back toward him.

“Elizabeth, let sleeping dogs lie.”

She smiled and nodded, kissing his mouth tenderly, but her heart and her newfound insecurities were fighting a silent battle with logic. She gave out a noncommittal “mm-hmm.”

Darcy sighed. This is going to be a long week.

***

The prior evening, Fitzwilliam had dreaded another lecture from Aunt Catherine. For two hours, she had vacillated between arguments for going to the funeral to pay her respects, or for not going and continuing the family conflict. In the end, as he knew it would, family duty won out over personal pride, and her carriage took them the long thirty miles to Meryton for the funeral, returning them back to Rosings almost immediately afterward.

Upon their arrival back to Rosings Park, Fitzwilliam barricaded himself within the business office with orders to all who would listen that he was not to be disturbed, unwilling to admit the fact that he was thoroughly mystified by his own accounting methods of a previous visit. He pulled at his hair and muttered vile obscenities, searching through what seemed like hundreds of receipts and reports and tenant requests. Everything looked the same, and nothing added up or made any sense.