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

One day he would open up to Darcy. He knew that a day would come eventually, probably during a drunken weekend and after several bottles of whiskey, and maybe then he could begin to confront the demons that tormented him.

He wanted so to have better life.

He wanted so to be a better man.

Chapter 2

The cold wind bit viciously at the little slice of his face still exposed to the elements. He held his hat down and averted his eyes from the sting of the icy crystals that were blowing everywhere. One more blasted block to Darcy’s, and he was already muttering scandalous oaths into his scarf. He heard the horses’ whinny at the last minute, just in time to avoid crashing into the back of the private carriage sitting alone in the square.

His initial aggravation was soon replaced with concern for the coach’s livestock. I dearly hope this groom is sensible enough to bring his horses out of the blasted cold, he worried. A cavalry man by trade and a country gentleman in his fondest dreams, he rated horses on the same level with few people he knew, and on a higher level than most others. He approached the man, speaking loudly to be heard over the wind.

“Excuse me, John Coachman.”

The man turned a jaundiced eye toward him, only to have his demeanor dissolve into the excited wonder to which Fitzwilliam was now accustomed. “Well, bloody ’ell! I say, I say. You’re ‘The Waterloo Colonel,’ ain’t you, sir?! Let me shake your ’and, sir. Let me shake your ’and. Well, cor, what a honor this is, to be sure! Bloody ’ell!”

Nodding, Fitzwilliam firmly clasped the man’s hand in both of his, saying loudly over the wind, “I don’t think it wise to keep your cattle still like this for much longer. Perhaps you should walk them around for a bit.”

“Imagine you takin’ a interest in these poor, dumb beasts, but ain’t you the finest there is. That’s wot everyone says, and so it is, so it is. Don’t worry yerself, Colonel, sir. ’Er ladyship will be off just as soon as the young ’un brings ’er blanket. She works the poor tib somethin’ fearful. ’Ere she come now.”

The older woman, a very disagreeable old tabby he recognized as being of his late mother’s slight acquaintance, had snapped down the carriage window and was leaning forward, her two hands clasped on the edge. “Amanda! Attend me, you ignorant girl! Did you remember to bring my woolen shawl also? I do need my woolen shawl,” she screeched. “And my fan—be quick about it, do you hear? We haven’t all day!” The window on the carriage snapped upward again. Fitzwilliam turned, amused and curious now as to whom she would call so rudely, when his breath caught in his throat. The whole square suddenly hushed.

***

He recognized her instantly. Over the years he had always been eager to smile in greeting and tip his hat in the hopes they could meet; she had been his dreamlike ideal of beauty, always mysteriously vanishing before he could reach her… and now here she was in the solid form of a plain, simple, dark grey cloak and gown.

She was blindly running up behind a young girl who looked to be around Georgiana’s age, a child dressed in the top stare of fashion and waiting to be handed into the coach by a distracted footman. The young woman had squeezed her eyes shut against the sleet and misjudged the distance to the young girl, colliding into her and causing them both to start a fit of giggles. The old tabby launched into yet another heated tirade.

He was unaware of how intensely he stared or how long this little scene lasted, struck senseless as he was by this elusive beauty now so close before him. She had dropped her reticule and was spinning, searching the ground, clutching at the old woman’s shawl that swirled about her legs. Long, dark blonde tendrils escaped from a bonnet threatening to be blown off, and her eyes blinked against the flying, stinging ice crystals. He bent to pick up the bag lying unnoticed in the wild wind and, stepping up behind her, rested his hand gently upon her arm. Electric.