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

For a moment she engaged in a struggle to return her nightcap properly to her head, finally assuring herself that it was situated correctly. Exhausted from her ordeal, she sighed loudly. “Not all servants are as loyal as your batboy, O’Malley. Where is he, by the way?”

Fitzwilliam rubbed his eyes. “That’s my batman, not batboy, and for some unexplained reason, he wished to remain in London and spend some private time alone with his wife before we return to Paris.”

His aunt’s only response was an uninterested, “How fascinating.”

He regarded her with a mischievous grin on his face. “And what on earth are you doing up at this late hour, stalking the hallways like the demented Lady Macbeth?”

“Well, as people age, they don’t need quite as much sleep as the young.”

“In that case, I wonder that you bother coming up to your room at all,” he mumbled then grinned when he saw her glare.

“I heard that. You are becoming much too cheeky, young man. I was talking with Darcy, if you must know.” She smiled. “It was good to speak of old times again with him. But he went off to bed, and so should you!” Her gaze slid once again over the bottle on the table then to the empty glass. Their eyes met.

“You seem to be drinking quite a bit, Richard.” Her voice had grown serious and quiet. “Much more than I ever remember, and I am growing more and more concerned about you, do you know that?” Her brow arched in inquiry as she watched him, waiting for his response. She was never one to be subtle.

“Awww… please do not start in on me again, Aunt,” he groaned. His shoulders hunched forward, and he rested his elbows on his knees, rubbing his neck with his hand. “I am not up to battle form tonight.”

“This is not to be borne, Richard, it really isn’t. You have such a… a heaviness about you at times that it breaks my heart. If there is something bothering you, you should speak to someone. Speak to Darcy. Do you feel ill? Or do you still feel the effects of the battles? Your injuries? Waterloo? Talk to a doctor, perhaps, but find out what troubles you so.”

He stared into the fire for a long time. Although the nightmares and flashbacks had, thankfully, begun to lessen, lightning and thunder always seemed to trigger his memories once again. How could he tell anyone of what he had been through, what he had done, what brutality he had seen these past ten years, battle after battle, mankind’s atrocities to the weaker and more vulnerable? War was nothing but legalized butchery. It was condoned insanity.

The ghosts of the past would sometimes flood back with the dark, so he kept the candles burning. Still, he was haunted with the sounds of men and animals screaming, the smell of blood and gore in his hair and on his hands, the smell of urine and shit and fear, the screams of maniacs in the heat of battle, the soldiers who viciously raped and tortured. His eyes squeezed shut at the memories. The storm outside raged on.

“What are those?” she asked, pointing to a stack of letters strewn across his desk.

“Believe it or not, those are words of sympathy I am still writing to the families of fallen soldiers, telling each and every one how their sons and husbands died valiantly in battle in the service of their country.” His voice sounded lifeless, and his eyes were red-rimmed. “That is finally the last of them, for now.”

“Is there any truth to what you write?” she asked quietly.

He shrugged. “I’ve written hundreds of these letters, thousands perhaps. There is no way to know how even a fraction of them met their ends, but no one wants to think of a loved one dying without honor or dying alone. I just hope it helps someone, somehow.” How could he describe to her the mutilated corpses, stripped naked and robbed, buried in mass graves with no hint of their identities? God, he felt so old tonight.

He was tempted to pour himself another drink but stopped, ashamed for her to see him. She looked different without the wigs and jewels, paint and elegant clothes, older than her fifty-odd years, rather grandmotherly and touchingly concerned. He would pour himself the drink once she left, and then maybe he could get a few hours sleep yet.

He reached over and grabbed her hand. “Thank you, dear Aunt, for your concern, but I shall be fine.” He squeezed her hand and released it, fighting off the depression that could sometimes devastate him. He sensed that she watched him but would not allow himself to look into her eyes.

“Richard,” she said softly. “Richard, look at me, Son.” His eyes finally came up to hers. “Whatever is causing this melancholy, do not try to drown it in drink. It does not work.” Tears began to well in her eyes and blur her vision. “I know that it does not work because I have already tried.” By the end, her voice was a mere whisper.