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

“Oh, you stupid idiot. When it comes to love, pride always takes second place.”

“I have never had to chase a woman, never, and certainly have no intention to begin now!” With that, Fitzwilliam stormed away. “Beg for that harridan! Ha! I have not enough interest in her to even pursue this any further. End of discussion.”

Chapter 10

Fitzwilliam leaned against Darcy’s carriage, an angry lover assessing his rival’s townhouse, the freezing rain fueling his fury. And the townhouse was an awesome sight, more a mansion, one of the largest, grandest homes in London, exceeded by few others, including Darcy’s and Catherine’s. “Shit. I knew the bastard was rich, but not this rich.”

His loyal batman and driver, O’Malley, grunted his opinion. “Ah, well, don’ be so hard on yerself, Colonel. Ya have good points—God bless me, even a busted clock is right twice the day. No, truly. Yer a good horseman, the very best I’ve ever seen, and yer kind to unfortunates… and ya have grand teeth. Oh, the fancy doctor may be filthy rich, an’ dark and handsome an’ all, and irresistible to the ladies, and…” Fitzwilliam’s cold, hard stare stopped the litany of Anthony Milagros’s greatness.

Unable to tear his eyes from his colonel’s O’Malley took a large swig from his flask and trembled violently from the potent brew. He took out his pipe. “I’ll not say another word. Me lips are sealed.”

“Bloody hell…” Fitzwilliam cursed as he made his way across the road, and then again as he opened the gate. He began the climb up the granite steps, hissing “shit, shit, shit,” on each one. He looked around as he approached the massive and elaborate double-door entryway. “Bloody hell.” Fine, money evidently will not influence him. I cannot possibly kill him. What are my other options? He pounded on the door knocker.

An ancient butler answered, terror registering on his face within moments of Fitzwilliam demanding entrance. Without saying a word, the trembling servant turned, motioning for Fitzwilliam to follow, slowly leading the bizarre little parade at a snail’s pace into a magnificently ornate receiving parlor. Finally facing the colonel he announced, in dreadful tones, that the doctor would be informed of his presence.

The splendid room was lit by the fires within two huge marble fireplaces, one on each end of the room, along with several gilt branches of candles strategically placed, Fitzwilliam sneered, for the sole beatific illumination of the highly expensive furnishings, rare tapestries, and paintings. It worked brilliantly. He walked to the front bank of French windows and turned to get the full effect, sweeping the room with his eyes. He exhaled loudly.

Shit.

***

Within the elegant mansion somewhere, an unsuspecting gentleman ignored the outdoor gloom and rain. To him, it was a lovely Tuesday evening in winter, crisp, clean and enchanting. Dr. Anthony Milagros had recently returned home after spending a productive but tiring day at his hospital and had put aside the disturbing visions his dearest friend’s words had conjured up the day before.

“Bah!” He laughed at his baseless fears, rebuked his own reflection in the dressing-room mirror. He had reacted much too emotionally. Amanda had, of course, been correct, although that would be a first for her. The colonel was a highly decorated, nationally respected military leader, was lionized as a hero, a role model, a modern-day knight in shining armor. He would not act like some rabid dog defending a bone. Would he…?

No! Of course not. Ridiculous.

Anthony laughed softly as he thought back to the Sunday just past when he and Amanda had had their tiny “fracas.” It was amusing to think of, really. In fact, as he now remembered it, with two days of hysteria as a cushion, he had been quite understanding during the entire confrontation—tolerant, sophisticated, exceedingly sympathetic.

***

“Have you lost your mind?!”

“Anthony, let me explain.”

“He will call me out, Amanda. I’m a dead man. I will never again see my family, never again see Madrid. Look at these hands… look at them. They are beautiful and perfect, slim, elegant. And to think I will never again play the violin.”

“You hate the violin.” She dutifully complied with his request and studied his hands. “You play very badly.”

“That is beside the point! I will have no time left to practice, will I? I will be dead.”

They had stood outside the small chapel both attended for early Sunday mass, the only place in London that allowed Catholic services. People scurried past, frightened by his extraordinary and spirited outburst, whispering and pointing, crossing themselves. Amanda dragged him by the elbow back into the church and deep into the south transept.