“She didn’t give any explanation for a visit though?” he asked.
“No. I truly think that Aunt Catherine had her so confused that she completely forgot what she was about.” Darcy smiled, relieved that Caroline’s deception and his visit to her were still unknown to Lizzy.
“That’s the first time I heard you call her Aunt Catherine instead of Lady Catherine.” He kissed her head again and rested his chin on it. “I think we are making real progress.”
“I’m feeling more part of the family every day. After ten or twenty years, I shall be right at home in all this luxury.”
“Get some sleep, will you? I need the rest.” He pushed his hat down over his eyes and closed them, letting his thoughts ruminate.
“By the way”—Lizzy’s voice sounded groggy—“where is my mother’s locket? I should like to be wearing it when I have the baby.”
His eyes opened with a shock. The locket! Oh, dear merciful God in heaven, he didn’t have the locket. He had left it at Netherfield and never returned.
“William? Are you sleeping?” He didn’t answer her and remained very still. “I’ll pester you tomorrow,” she murmured and was soon snoring softly. Darcy, however, was not going to sleep any time soon.
Volume Two
Colonel Richard Fitzwilliam
An Officer
Here’s forty shillings on the drum,
For those that volunteer to come,
With shirts, and clothes, and present pay,
Then o’er the hills and far away.
O’er the hills and o’er the main,
Through Flanders, Portugal, and Spain,
King George commands and we obey,
Over the hills and far away.
Hark! Now the drums beat up again,
For all true soldier gentlemen,
Then let us ’list and march I say,
Over the hills and far away.
Fighting a brutal and sudden gust of frigid November wind, Colonel Richard Fitzwilliam was making slow headway in his march across Mayfair, advancing doggedly toward the townhouse of his cousin, Fitzwilliam Darcy. Onlookers not distracted by their freezing extremities saw a tall, broad, and very familiar soldier passing by them. Hunched shoulders beneath a nearly floor-length, battered military greatcoat, muscular legs resembling tree trunks encased in scruffy military knee boots, gloved hands grappling at the cloak’s broken neck closure. This pathetic excuse for an ensemble was topped off by a large, dark bicorn hat that had been pulled low and was plain and battered, absent of fancy feathers or brass.
Bent against the cold and sleet, he was presently lost in thought, having just left his general’s home. It was November 11, 1817, and Colonel Fitzwilliam was returning from a disturbing morning meeting with Arthur Wellesley, the Duke of Wellington—his mentor, commanding officer, and dear friend.
“Halloo, Colonel!” someone yelled from a passing coach, a stranger to whom Fitzwilliam automatically raised his arm in response, smiling pleasantly and nodding. Two gentlemen passing by noticed this and boldly approached him, insisting on introducing themselves when they realized who he was. They pressed their cards into his hands and, winking broadly, hinted that they would do right by him if he would merely endorse one of their enterprises, lend his name to one of their products, or if he would allow them to use his likeness in any way. He smiled politely, as he always did, saying he would certainly consider their requests, and then excused himself to move on, pulling his collar up higher and his hat lower, ostensibly against the cold.
It had been like this for the two years since Wellington’s Anglo-allied army’s magnificent victory at Waterloo, and still the city of London was mad with patriotic fervor, and Richard’s valor having long since elevated him to the lofty status of celebrity. For several years now, the military’s every battle, their wounds, and even in some instances their deaths, had been liberally seasoned with florid prose then served up by the daily news sheets as entertainment. Animated discussions on every corner encouraged opinions to flow as freely as wine, thereby enriching the dreariness of the baker’s and the blacksmith’s lives, alleviating the tedium of the shopkeeper or the farmer.
It was the Battle of Waterloo that propelled him into this truly legendary status. Stories in the daily papers immediately after his return had revealed his wounding and heroic struggle to survive amidst the onslaught of barbaric French soldiers swooping in for the kill of this high-ranking British officer. That the story, as it now was told—told and retold and told again some eighteen months after the fact—bore little resemblance to the reality of the event… well, that seemed irrelevant to the editors.
Devotees called out to him from windows, from passing horses and carriages, or as he lounged within the gentlemen’s clubs. It made no sense to him at all. He was the same man who had spent ten years living like an animal in Portuguese and Spanish mud, often grudgingly caught in the reflected glory of being one of Wellesley’s favored officers. Then, shortly after Waterloo and his highly publicized heroics, he returned home to a frenzied reception.
He squinted through the sleet to check for carriages prior to his crossing, wondering if the adoring masses would be as impressed were it known that a moment of abysmally poor judgment had him fighting alongside his men that fateful day, that a military blunder on his own part had caused his beloved horse to be shot out from under him. Stupidly caught by a sudden French cavalry charge, he was a very high-ranking officer trapped in the wrong place at the wrong time, then tossed into the bloodlust of battle. It was the reason officers stayed remote, far back from the fighting, a dictum he had failed to follow. “Kill the head and the body will die,” common knowledge in warfare. It was his misjudgment to have lingered so long near the front, and his lovely Domina was brought down, pinning him beneath her and crushing his leg.
“Hold square! Hold square!” He roared the command to his men as he lay injured on the open field before them. His officers defied that order, a first for them, and had run out to drag him back within their square to safety, completely ignoring his threats of courts martial. He never did follow through on those threats, musing that they had all fought to save each other that day, not for patriotism. Over and over he fired the rifle that had been unceremoniously thrust into his hand, a rifle grabbed from a dead soldier, eventually ending up slashing and butchering blindly with its bayonet. The French soldiers kept coming for him, and too many of his men, his band of brothers, thieves, and drunks as they were, had been injured or killed trying to defend him.
