He waved in his good-natured manner to another well-wisher then hurriedly turned a corner, momentarily relaxing his shoulders a bit, protected from the storm by a large building. Now that there was relative peace in Europe and a new world order on the horizon, he would need to decide what to do with the rest of his life—whether to stay in the army or resign his commission, work for Wellington at the Board of Ordnance. It was a hard decision either way.
Staying with the status quo would mean continuing in a peacetime army and a lifestyle within which he no longer felt comfortable, a lifestyle of loose women, drinking and carousing, and avoiding the responsibilities of adult life. He paused in his steps for a moment, forgetting just why any of that was so bad, and then continued on, laughing softly.
Then again… he could follow his mentor, work on the Board… well, that would necessitate embroiling himself in political infighting and backstabbing. Rather like battling the Frogs but with better meals and no honor. And he knew Wellington. Wellington was ambitious, ruthless really, and would not stop until he was made prime minister. The man was obsessively victory driven. It was the main thing he admired in his friend and a character trait they shared in common.
Then again… he could return home and fight twenty-four hours a day with his wretched older brother, Regis.
Any of the choices before him made him want to gag or get good and drunk.
Another shout out came from a group of young Corinthians racing by in their phaetons. “Whoo! Hoo! Well done, Colonel!” “Capital fellow!” “Come have a drink with us!!” He smiled vaguely then winced as one phaeton slid sideways on the ice, almost toppling itself and nearly injuring the precious horses.
The wind was kicking up more now, and it was biting cold.
There definitely was an upside to fame.
The sad truth was that the one thing he really would have wanted to do with his life was the one thing that he could not. In his heart of hearts, Fitzwilliam wanted nothing more than to be a simple country squire. He wanted to work the soil, chop trees, and visit his tenants. He wanted to read and actually understand cattle and crop reports, or bicker over terms with tradesmen. He wanted a quiet, neat little home and the chance to doze off in a chair in his own garden, after he’d had a good pipe and glass of port. He wanted to smell the daisies handed to him by an adorable little moppet daughter, and to teach a son to ride a pony and how to fish. He wanted an innocent, demure, quiet, and biddable heiress wife, a shy lady who would be a model of English propriety by day and a whore for him in his bedroom by night. He sighed and grunted at his own foolishness.
After all, he had no money of his own.
He was a well-bred English second son.
He also was thirty-two years old and had spent the first blush of his young manhood sitting in mud and worried about getting enough food for his troops. Enough food and enough blankets, bullets, boots, horses, etc. Scavenging and stealing had occupied much of any time not spent in battle or being blind drunk, and the years had just slipped away. To his mind, he was too old now to start afresh, had no home of his own and no income. Of course, he could ask his father for any amount of money his heart desired, but he could not and would not take advantage of a man he so respected. He was back to wondering what to do with the remainder of his life. Most second and third sons could be assured of benevolence from the firstborn who inherited all; however, once his father was gone, he was certain Regis would cut him off without a farthing. They hated the sight of each other.
He truly should plan for the future, but not today.
A gentleman slapped him on the shoulder. “Good show! Good show!” the man exclaimed then planted himself squarely in Fitzwilliam’s path. “I say, Colonel, may I call you Dick? Excellent! My, you’re a tall one, aren’t you? How’s the weather up there, what? Ha! Ha! Dick, did you happen to know my cousin? Major Billy Hench? Average height, light hair. Oh, surely you knew him. He was at Waterloo, also, and made quite a show for himself there.”
Fitzwilliam stared down at the diminutive man, expecting a little more information, and when it wasn’t forthcoming, he decided he would speed things up a bit.
“Excuse me, sir. Was your cousin also with the Coldstream Guards?”
“No, he was with the 72nd. To tell the truth, he did not actually see much action in the battle, per se, but he did attend the Duke of Richmond’s rout the night before. Surely you were there yourself! No? Are you certain? But my dear Dick, you must be mistaken. It was
Truth be told, though, the war years were not completely behind Fitzwilliam, whether he acknowledged it or not. Unknown to his friends and even to some of his family, Fitzwilliam had been experiencing the aftermaths of war—battle fatigue and its accompanying nightmares, flashbacks, and panic seizures.
The more these symptoms plagued him, the deeper he fell into his old cycle from the years before—drinking, women, and gambling—until he himself was becoming aware of the adverse effect it was having on his physical, as well as mental, health.
The tide turned upon one comment from his beloved aunt Catherine. “
Damn old bat.
The remark had struck home. He knew his dark had become more and more appalling, possessing moments he would be loath to have exposed to the world, behavior of which he had become deeply ashamed.
One day he would open up to Darcy. He knew that a day would come eventually, probably during a drunken weekend and after several bottles of whiskey, and maybe then he could begin to confront the demons that tormented him.
He wanted so to have better life.
He wanted so to be a better man.
The cold wind bit viciously at the little slice of his face still exposed to the elements. He held his hat down and averted his eyes from the sting of the icy crystals that were blowing everywhere. One more blasted block to Darcy’s, and he was already muttering scandalous oaths into his scarf. He heard the horses’ whinny at the last minute, just in time to avoid crashing into the back of the private carriage sitting alone in the square.
