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

It was seven-thirty in the morning, and Harry Penrod was bored, bored with the hushed voices and the dim candles, bored with the slow, reverent singing. He was so bored that he was even unwilling to fight, as he always did, the drift into sleep he was feeling. He sucked contentedly on his thumb and moved his tiny hand forward to play with the fringes of his mama’s shawl. Even horsey was not of any interest to him at the moment.

It was then that the earth shook, and Harry jumped from the shock, his head spinning around to see what disastrous event had occurred. To his great surprise, behind him stood the largest man he had ever seen, wearing a huge tent of a cloak, which when parted, revealed red material containing shiny brass medals and glimpses of golden braid.

It was a soldier!

Harry stared up at the giant for the longest time, speechless. What to do? What to do? Here was one of those moments his mama had warned him about that could divert him from respectful silence for Baby Jesus. On the one hand, he was only a little boy, but on the other, he had promised his mama to remain quiet and out of trouble for the duration of the mass. After all…

Baby Jesus never caused trouble.

Baby Jesus obeyed his nursey and put away his clothes.

Baby Jesus always finished his soup. Privately, Harry had once or twice sacrilegiously thought that Baby Jesus did not seem to be much fun, but still and all, Harry wished he could be like Baby Jesus, if only for a few moments.

Then the giant winked at him!

His little heart pumped wildly. Unable to resist, Harry pulled himself into a standing position to commence reconnaissance. Perhaps beneath that heavy cloak there were gold buttons and braids, more medals, velvet trim—oh, but it could be a hidden treasure trove of delights, this magnificent uniform. He gingerly pulled back the edge of the cloak to peek inside, hoping that the large man would somehow not notice this rather personal intrusion. Never before had he seen so much brass and gold—this must be a very important soldier, he reasoned, and such a huge expanse of red that it made his eyes swim! Pushing the cloak open even wider, he leaned way over and then sighed, disappointed not to see a bloody sword. He closed the cloak and then patted it fondly.

Chapter 14

The child sniffled, vigorously rubbing his nose back and forth across his sleeve, and oh, how Fitzwilliam remembered the days when there was no time for studies or naps or pianoforte lessons, let alone handkerchiefs. He retrieved a clean one from his pocket and held it over the child’s mouth and nose. The boy’s eyes flashed up to Fitzwilliam’s face as he blew his nose loudly into the cloth two or three times. Fitzwilliam then folded it over and dabbed the little nose dry before returning the saturated cloth to his pocket.

Harry stood up on tiptoes so that he could whisper near to Richard’s ear, “Thank you, sir.”

“You are quite welcome,” replied Fitzwilliam, smiling down at the beautiful youngster. With a child’s innocence, little Harry disregarded the imposing size of the man, only to see the gentle warmth of his smile, and smiled in return. He continued to regard Fitzwilliam for several more minutes.

“You are a soldier, sir.”

“Why, so I am,” Fitzwilliam responded, and the child nodded gravely, his eyes filled with respect.

He studied Fitzwilliam thoughtfully. Holding the back of the pew, he rocked back once or twice, his intense curiosity focusing on the many scars of battle he saw, on the soldier’s neck and forehead, the faint scar across his jaw, then finally he rested his gaze on a very large and ugly scar on Fitzwilliam’s hand. Utterly fascinated, he fingered it tenderly as he sniffled once more. Again he went up on his tiptoes to speak into Fitzwilliam’s ear. “From where did you receive this, sir? Was it in a battle?” he asked in his child’s little whisper.

Fitzwilliam nodded. “I received that at Waterloo,” he whispered back. The boy gravely nodded with all the immense respect due to the significance of that fact, even though he hadn’t a clue what a Waterloo was. Then he recollected a wound he himself had received in battle and pulled up his trouser. Twisting his leg around, he pointed to a scar on the back of his calf while he held onto Richard’s shoulder for balance. Richard reached his arm about the boy’s waist for support.

Richard dutifully studied the little scar and made an appropriately sympathetic noise. He raised an eyebrow inquiry.

“Dorset” was the identification of the battlefield.

Fitzwilliam stifled his chuckle with a discreet cough. “Ah.”

They stayed like that for several moments, the companionable silent bonding of two warriors. They were now best of pals, Harry’s arm stretched up to Fitzwilliam’s shoulder, which he would pat occasionally to comfort his new friend. Fitzwilliam still had his arm supporting the child’s waist.