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

Since purchasing his commission in the spring of 1806, Colonel Richard Fitzwilliam had been involved in the worst battles of the Peninsular War, from the Battle of Vimeiro in 1808 through Coruna, Porto, Talevera, counter attacks at Fuentes de Onoro, Ciudad Rodrigo, pushing eastward to Salamanca, Vitoria, Maya, and into France. He had suffered through unthinkable deprivations, unbearable heat and mind-numbing cold, sloshed through mud and ice storms, fought savagely amid the slaughter and brutality of men driven insane with hatred and revenge.

And yet… all these seemed preferable to sitting across from his aunt Catherine for the two-and-one-half-hour carriage ride from Rosings Park to Lizzy’s family home, Longbourn. If she poked his knee one more time with that bony finger of hers, she would be retracting a bloody stump.

“Cut line, Catherine!” he finally hissed.

“I beg your pardon! I realize I am old, Fitzwilliam, and feeble…” He snorted his opinion of that. “… and feeble,” she yelled, indicating with a circle of her finger her heart area, “but I do believe that as matriarch of this family I have a right, nay, a certain obligation to point out the error of your excesses. Never mind that you are involved in illicit relationships with opera dancers and shop girls. Never mind that you cuckold titled members of the aristocracy…” Suddenly she halted midscreech, looking confused.

“Well, please don’t stop there, Aunt. That cannot be the end of your tirade, surely. We have another hour yet to go sealed within this tomb of horrors, and you have not even begun to mention my excessive drinking, my indifference to my heritage, or my disloyalty to Somerfield House.”

“Yes!! Oh, thank you, Richard, thank you. I knew there was something I had forgotten!” She laughed. “La, my mind sometimes…”

Fitzwilliam moaned.

The demon reentered her body. “You do realize that idiot brother of yours has yet to marry and produce an heir. Of course, I have tried to reason with him, but he’s nonsensical, prancing about with those artist friends of his. You have obligations, young man, to your family, and yes, to your heritage. Heaven knows what you see in these loose women…” She flung up her hand. “Do not even dare to speak of it to me. I can interpret an eyebrow waggle when I see one! Only destruction and misfortune can come from this behavior. There is no future with harlots, as well you know. You are behaving like the very worst rakehell of Carlton House.”

“Forgive me, but is there a very best type of rakehell?”

“This amuses you? If your sainted mother were alive today, this would kill her. Your health is failing you, Richard. Your career will be affected. I demand that you settle down and marry immediately. Why can you not select from the daughters of the many excellent families that are within our circle? My goodness, Pamela Tyson Briggs must be nearly twenty years old and has the hips of a good breeder.”

“She has the hips of a good rhinoceros,” he mumbled.

And the discussion began its inevitable spiral downward after that.

***

The carriage arrived at Longbourn at nearly half past noon. It was a vastly improved Longbourn from when Lady Catherine had last visited, that horrible day when she confronted Elizabeth, shouting out her views on the unsuitability of any sort of relationship between the poor country girl and Darcy.

Both Darcy and Bingley had together refurbished and beautified the old household of their in-laws. The garden was once again fine-looking, the house itself painted, the roof repaired, the drainage problem that had flooded the front yard and back was easily solved by Darcy, and the inside saw new wallpaper, sofas, tables, and draperies courtesy of Bingley.

It was an elegant little manor house that now stood before Catherine as Fitzwilliam handed her down from the carriage and they began to walk up the drive.

“Well, it seems quite an unexceptional home,” she offered kindly. “Much better than I remembered.” Perhaps the girl was not as much beneath her nephew as she had believed. Guiding her by the elbow, Fitzwilliam proceeded to lead her down a lovely little walkway through the front flower garden, a path that was lined by a beautiful low box hedge. It was a lovely day, the quiet interrupted only by the chirping of the blackbirds, the robins, the Tits—Blue, Great and Coal.

When they reached the first of four stepping stones that led to the main front veranda, a strange sort of keening noise began, faintly at first, growing louder and nearer in proximity. They stopped, quizzically looking first at each other and then about them. The sound grew more strident.

It was then that a medium-sized porker appeared from around the back of the house, streaking across their path and squealing at an ear-deafening pitch, followed closely by a barefoot, unkempt serving boy wielding a butcher knife and swearing like a drunken sailor. Catherine gripped Fitzwilliam’s arm and tightly closed her eyes.