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

Darcy hugged her tightly and kissed her forehead before saying good night. Then she was alone again. She thought that perhaps she would go to Anne’s room and check on her, a mother’s habit that would never die.

Picking up her candle, she went out into a hall dimly lit with wall sconces, smiling when she saw Darcy close the door to his suite of rooms. That was good—another of her babies would soon be safely in bed.

She padded her way down to Anne’s suites to look in at her sleeping daughter, walking over quickly to close the windows that were allowing in some of the pouring rain. Clucking and grumbling, she brought a towel from the linen drawer and placed it over the rain-soaked carpet. Will these children never learn to listen to me? She harrumphed.

With relaxation still eluding her, she decided to check on the other rooms, to make certain servants were everywhere if needed. Jamison had done a good job, she noted to herself, as there appeared to be a footman every ten feet, the lightning outside illuminating the old mansion every few moments. She turned down the far hallway toward Fitzwilliam’s rooms, laughing to herself at his earlier comments. He truly was rather far from the main part of the house. He and Darcy had always had the west wing of rooms to themselves whenever they visited. She felt bachelors should have their privacy, especially from a nosy old aunt.

She saw a faint light below his door . Is Fitzwilliam still awake? It must be nearing 3:00 a.m. The two footmen assigned there bowed at her approach, which she amiably acknowledged, and then on her signal, one knocked softly on the door. After a few moments, she heard her nephew’s gruff bark. “Who is it?”

“Eleanor of Aquitaine. May I enter?”

She heard him chuckle. “Enter at your own peril. The Lionheart is in residence.”

When the door opened, he arose slowly from his seat before the fire. Her eyes immediately focused on the balcony doors as she approached him. They were flung wide, allowing in the cooling air.

“Good heavens, Richard, it’s raining outside, you fool.” She marched over to the doors to close them, barely refraining herself from closing the windows also. “It is freezing in here.”

“Aunt Catherine, the rain is not coming in this direction, and the room is only now beginning to cool down. God in heaven, woman, how can you think it freezing? Are you completely devoid of blood?” His eyes were scowling even as his lips fought off a smile.

“What a ridiculous thing to say! Of course I have blood, extremely blue blood, as you well know, and don’t call me ‘woman’ in that tone, as if I’m a tavern wench or camp follower or French.” He turned away to hide his grin as she sat in the chair next to his.

“What on earth are you doing up at this late hour?” She leaned toward him as he sat, stared at him with concern, noting the dark circles beneath his eyes. An empty glass and nearly empty whiskey bottle were on the table next to him.

“I couldn’t sleep.” His voice sounded a bit rough. “It happens to me now and then, especially during thunderstorms. That’s why I like the doors and windows open. I dislike being locked in when it rains.”

“You’re a young healthy man; of course you can sleep. Don’t be ridiculous! Apply yourself.”

As he settled his back into the chair, he studied her face from lowered eyes. Much of the weight she had lost during her illness had not returned, and he noticed that her skin looked paper-thin, that her graying hair looked wiry where it was not confined within her braid. She looked brittle almost, fragile as glass.

“God, but I feel old tonight, Richard.” She removed her cap to vigorously scratch the back of her head, yawning loudly. Gradually her eyes became accustomed to the dim light, and she saw a room in disaster—clothes and shoes thrown about, dishes resting upon the floor. His valise was opened but unpacked and rested on a bench beneath his window.

Her eyes grew huge. “Good heavens!” She was certainly wide awake now. “Richard Fitzwilliam! Did I not send up a footman to act as your valet this visit?” As any mother would instinctively do, she arose from her seat and began picking up shirts and pants, straightening chairs and stacking the amazing array of dirty plates, all the time grunting and clucking her tongue with every dirty stocking and wrinkled neck scarf.

This was the last thing he needed this evening. His eyes rolled in irritation. “Yes, you did… I sent him away.”

She turned to him. “Whatever for?”

“He didn’t like me.”

“Well, of course he didn’t like you— he’s a servant!” After placing the folded clothes upon his dresser and the plates on the sideboard, she sat back down again. “To paraphrase our dear Lord, ‘No prophet is without honor except with his own valet.’”