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

anywhere.

It was clear that the bed had been entered at some point, but the covers were still in an almost pristine condition, not wrestled about, half off the bed and half on, as on most mornings. A movement on the settee in the adjoining sitting room, a figure covered by a great quilt, caught his eye.

The form groaned and turned toward the light streaming in through the windows where Bradford had just pulled back the curtains to reveal the extent of destruction. The form was Mr. Darcy!

He shielded his eyes quickly from the brightness, and once he had made out who the intruder was, put up his hand in greeting. “Bradford, good morning. Terribly sorry for this mess.” He waved his arm vaguely to encompass the bedroom and then the rest of London. He let his head crash back down on the sofa.

He looked hideous—well, as hideous as the handsome Mr. Darcy could look. Bradford slowly entered farther into the room, now seeing broken picture frames and torn clothing, overturned chairs and one or two mirrors balanced precariously on their sides in the corners.

“Is everything all right, sir?” It was an absurd question. Clearly evident were the remains of the couple’s first out-and-out brawl. It was also painfully evident to him that Darcy and Elizabeth, for the first time in their young marriage, had not slept in the same bed.

Darcy moaned and turned his face into the sofa again. “Mrs. Darcy and I have had a bit of a contretemps.” He then slowly pulled the cover up over his head.

In another first in their relatively short months of wedded bliss, there was no evidence of the mistress of the house at breakfast, her most favored meal, or again at lunch, her other most favored meal. Several of the staff began to speculate about dinner and if the bottom of the lake should be investigated. The gossip in the servants’ hall would stop whenever Bradford came through but revived the moment his door closed.

Chapter 7

Darcy paced back and forth, alternately angry and contrite, unsure of what to do or how to say it. How could he explain something that had happened so long ago, at a time when he was incredibly naïve?

He had been introduced to the lovely Caroline Bingley by his older and hopelessly randy cousin, Richard Fitzwilliam, during a fashionable dinner party at Carlton House. A favorite with the high flyers, Caroline had been much younger when she initiated her ultimately unsuccessful campaign to barter morals for an advantageous match. Alas, when push came to shove, she was only a tradesman’s daughter, and always would remain one.

She had pursued the incredibly handsome newcomer, Darcy, until he succumbed after a night of heavy drinking and unsuccessful gaming. It had been a satisfying three hours, vaguely remembered, but three hours that he never cared to repeat. It had meant little to him then and was conveniently forgotten with time.

Standing before his wife’s sitting-room door, he was prepared to knock but hesitant. How could they discuss this problem in an adult, rational manner when they appeared to be one rational adult short? The Elizabeth he had seen last evening was a stranger to him, a spoiled child with her screeching and outrage. The behavior she exhibited had confused him; her lack of emotional control baffled him. He stared at the closed door and sighed. What could he do? God alone knew how much he missed his beloved angel and closest friend, and that after only one night apart. Why, he missed her so much that he wanted to strangle her. This was ridiculous; he was head of his household, after all. He would simply demand she listen to him.

Darcy abandoned that idea when the first flowerpot hit the wall.

“Elizabeth!” He was shocked, his indignity magnified as he spun around clumsily to avoid being crowned by a water pitcher that sailed just to the left of his head and hit the doorframe. “This is insupportable! This is outrageous! You cannot throw water pots!”

“You are right yet again, Mr. Darcy. It would not usually be my first choice. I personally believe it’s because their center of gravity is so low. If you will but allow me another opportunity, I will switch to statuettes! My ability with those has grown leaps and bounds!” He quickly closed the door before it was smashed, fittingly, by a small replica of Cupid, and leaned his back against the frame, his hands fisted at his waist. Well, it’s obvious that she has lost her mind. Darcy prided himself as always on his calm, his reasoning capabilities. I am married to a madwoman. How much more ridiculous could this argument become? A fit caused by an affair that had happened so long before her, not even an affair really—more a frisky moment. Did she believe he had lived like a monk all those years?

“Elizabeth!” he called through the closed door, “will you please allow me to enter so that we can discuss this rationally, like adults?” He heard nothing from within. “Oh cut line, Lizzy, please give me a chance to explain.”

“There is nothing in the world you could say to me at this moment, sir. We are through. I never want to set eyes upon you again. Would you be so good as to help me pack my things and drive me to my father’s house?”

“Elizabeth, you are being incredibly foolish. Any association I had with Caroline Bingley happened ages ago, before my friendship with Charles.”

Darcy never imagined that his sweet, beloved, elfin wife could be capable of such rage. Of course, he had never before been subjected to the delicate sentiments of a pregnant woman. It was ghastly. He grew truly concerned when he heard her sobs begin, and then her labored breathing coming in gasps. “Sweetheart, think of the child and calm down.”

After several moments, the door slowly opened. “Speak,” she commanded as she turned to walk back into the room. She then sat in regal silence, her eyes red-rimmed and her hair sticking out Medusa-like from her head.

Darcy took a few steps in and closed the door behind him. “Now you are being sensible. Good thing you let me in; I believe the servants were beginning to suspect something was amiss.”

She lifted her hairbrush threateningly.

“All right, all right.” Raising both his hands in a plea for truce, he took a seat directly opposite her. Where to begin? How to begin? “It happened years ago, a short time before I first met Bingley, when Fitzwilliam and I returned from our grand tour. We were both just out of university.”

An unblinking Elizabeth gazed straight past him, her hairbrush still poised to attack at any moment.

“It is all Fitzwilliam’s fault, you know. He introduced me to Caroline. They had met through a mutual acquaintance, an officer friend of both, and I have to admit I thought she was very, very pretty.” With that, Elizabeth turned cold, dead eyes to Darcy. They narrowed on him dangerously. “Well, she is, or was, anyway. Maybe one ‘very’ would have been sufficient, eh?” When Elizabeth didn’t respond to his jest, he continued with the narrative.

He rubbed his hands nervously across his thighs. “As I was saying,” he began, “it was after a gathering we had all attended, one of many that had been, well, more than a bit wild and bawdy, and we, uh, all had a great deal too much to drink, and… and…”

“You are a drunkard and a debaucher. Thank you. I feel ever so much better.” She was not letting him off the hook so very easily.

“Well, I was not her first, Elizabeth, if that’s what you’re implying. I was no seducer of an innocent.”

Elizabeth allowed an exaggerated eyebrow to rise. “Oh, really?” Suddenly her mood became ferocious. “How many times were you with her?” she barked out. The Spanish Inquisition had been more gregarious.

“Once. Well, twice actually, but both on the same night. The first time, I believe I fell asleep on her. Well, not exactly on her…” The lethal hairbrush was quickly on the rise again.

“Does Bingley know?” she snapped.

“Good Lord, I hope not. No one knows except you… and Fitzwilliam. She had several men before me, Lizzy, and after me, too. She had become quite legendary. Just ask him.”

Lizzy’s eyeballs opened wide. “Really? He also…?” she asked, more interested now in acquiring the ton gossip than her own problems. Darcy didn’t really know for sure, but Fitzwilliam had introduced them and had been mildly attracted to her, as well, had spent some time with her, and knowing Caroline, it was very possible. “Don’t be naïve, Lizzy.” What the hell. “Yes, of course Fitzwilliam, too. He’s no saint, you know.”

She lowered the hairbrush. “Well… once I could somewhat imagine, when you were exceedingly drunk. Blind