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

Georgiana blanched at the horde surrounding them, her fear of crowds once again rising. She had so hoped to continue hiding between her two male family members, but Fitzwilliam was not to be put off. “And, if you do not, I will tell your brother here about a certain young acquaintance of which I have heard rumors.”

Darcy’s eyebrow arched neatly into his hairline. “Georgiana??”

“Sorry, Brother, I have a mission to accomplish.” With her eyes averted, she had just turned to scamper off when she was stopped by an elegantly gloved hand clasped onto her wrist.

“There you are.” The familiar and grating voice pierced their bubble of gaiety. Fitzwilliam cringed as Darcy turned to greet their aunt.

“Aunt Catherine”—he bowed to kiss her cheek—“what a delight to see you.” He lied on behalf of them all. “We feared we would have difficulties finding you in this crush.”

“Crush? I’ve taken baths with more servants in attendance. By the way, why on earth are you arriving at this hour? You were both taught better manners than this!” Darcy noted that her shiny eyes were having some difficulty focusing, possibly from too many glasses of sherry.

“Catherine,” Darcy said calmly, trying to be patient, “it’s only half-past nine.”

“Exactly! Well, it can’t be helped now. I must take you all to greet Lady Jersey. Where is Georgiana? Where is my little one?”

The two men parted to expose the trembling debutante.

Catherine’s hands flew up to her cheeks, tears welling in her tiny and slightly dazed eyes. “Georgiana, you look so like your dear mother. She was my sister, did you know that? Well, you look absolutely exquisite, no other word to describe. Who designed your gown, dearest? It is lovely. Who is her dressmaker? Who…?” She looked questioningly at her nephews’ blank stares and immediately gave up. “Oh, never mind. It’s like talking to cheese.”

“Madame Collette,” Georgiana supplied, smiling.

Catherine nodded her approval then evaluated Darcy’s appearance and glowed with pride. He was, as always, dressed in the height of elegance. She flinched visibly when she turned her attention to Fitzwilliam, cocking one eyebrow as she scanned his boots with her quizzing glass.

“I fell under my horse at Waterloo. Haven’t had a chance to get them buffed up as yet.”

Losing interest quickly in her nephew’s boots, Catherine returned her attention to Georgiana and smiled kindly. “Do you have a lady’s maid?”

“Aunt Catherine.” Darcy was not amused. “I can assure you Georgiana has several lady’s maids and a companion. She also has a number of homes at her disposal whenever and wherever she desires, all bursting with staff, horses, sixteen dogs, and five cats.”

“I do so like your hair, Georgiana. I cannot abide a maid who is unable to properly attend to hair. Yours looks exceedingly well. Who did it? The cook? The laundress? The groundskeeper?”

“My maid, Aunt Catherine.”

Darcy’s foot began to tap furiously, but Catherine’s infamous pendulum-like attention had now swung back to Fitzwilliam.

“Why on earth are you turning around every five seconds?! Have you a palsy or some other like condition?”

“Yes, Lady Catherine, and I appeal to you to excuse me. I feel the need to lie down and rest for a while.”

Catherine huffed. “Oh, you have a condition, I’ll warrant, but it isn’t palsy. I am beginning to question your eyesight. You keep looking across the room at those old dowagers.” She squinted harder and then turned back to him, aghast. “At least I am sincerely hoping it is the dowagers. Never tell me you are casting those longing looks toward the atrocious lavender dress. She is not suitable, Fitzwilliam. Don’t repeat this to a soul, but I believe she is wearing wool.”

He stared down at her in fuming silence.

“She is a servant, Richard! That is obvious by the meanness of her attire! You cannot be serious!”

Fitzwilliam’s voice grew ominously quiet. “I am not in the habit of judging people merely by their garments, Aunt. Besides, how can you of all people consider her a servant? She is still young enough to walk without assistance.”

“Don’t you get so high and mighty with me, young man! No woman of quality would be seen out in the evening without jewels, with no gloves, no hair adornments—in wool! Where is her fan, I ask? Ugh! Merciful heavens, this is not to be borne!”

Darcy cleared his throat. “Aunt Catherine, we had considered that possibly the young woman in question may be a foreigner, perhaps in mourning attire. That would explain the rather drab clothing as well as her lack of embellishment.”

“Oh, the poor dear, a war widow, do you think?” Catherine’s hand went to her heart in devastated compassion, completely forgetting her previous outburst.

It swiftly passed.