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

Finally calming a bit, she kissed his palms. “Oh, my darling, darling husband…” Her voice caught on a sob. “Richard, it is over. My mother-in-law has agreed to allow us to keep Harry. She has agreed to work together with us to reverse the custody through the courts and parliament. She only asks that she not be separated completely from him.” It was a few moments before either could speak.

“Did you hear me? It is over, Richard. It is over, and I love you. I love you now and forever, more than my life.” He stared at her in stunned silence.

It was over? Surely she must be mistaken. In her terror, she probably misunderstood the note.

It was over? She nodded happily at his befuddled expression. “Yes. That is why Lady Catherine was eavesdropping so blatantly. We have both been waiting anxiously for your return.”

It was over? His arms slowly surrounded her, crushing her to his chest, tears coming unashamedly to his eyes.

It was over. His whoop of happiness shook the rafters.

***

He could not at first comprehend what that meant, his mind first rejecting this thin beacon of light then eventually becoming blinded with its sunburst. It was finally over. He kissed her eyes and nose and throat and lips, the shock rapidly turning into relief, an overwhelming relief that exploded within them both, and they began to laugh and shout their joy. He twirled her around in his arms. They kissed hungrily and with all the energy that God can provide two people wildly in love. Over and over again, kissing each other senseless, kissing each other until they both wanted more—much, much more.

He tumbled backward onto the sofa and pulled her down onto his lap, laughing and moaning happily with each intimate touch, each caress. “I cannot believe this,” he muttered into her hair. “You realize we must name our first daughter Catherine and the second, Marie. Good Lord, how else can we ever repay them? They did it! Those sly old foxes actually did it.”

She nodded merrily, laughing and nibbling his jaw. “I think we should just go ahead and name all of our children after them, boys and girls.” Her head rested on his shoulder, and she noticed a few nicks on his cheek, touched that he had drunkenly shaved, especially before coming to see her, then alarmed that it looked something more akin to attempted suicide by razor. He must have been so very nervous, she thought, and her heart squeezed with love. He ran his thumb across her lips and inhaled her sweet Amanda scent, the scent of soap.

“God, how dearly I love you,” he whispered.

***

And so the dance began that very next day at noon, when the elder Lady Penrod’s people contacted Lady Catherine de Bourgh’s people, who in turn contacted the colonel’s people… Runners, carriages, and paper began their fluttering ballet, shuffling around Mayfair and St. James at an alarming speed until the final “i” was dotted and the final “t” was crossed and every lawyer involved was as rich as Croesus.

Chapter 16

On a beautiful, crisp Saturday morning several weeks later, March 12th to be exact, in the year of our Lord 1818, a certain young Mr. Darcy, a Mr. Bennet George Darcy to be precise, was officially welcomed into the Anglican Church community by none other than the Archbishop of Canterbury himself, Charles Manners-Sutton, or Cousin Chum, as Aunt Catherine had often referred to him during their childhood.

Before the magnificent baptismal font at St. George’s Cathedral, his doting uncle, Colonel Richard Fitzwilliam, stood proudly, his pregnant wife, Amanda, at his side. Cradled within his strong arms, B. George Darcy screamed bloody hell, furious at the dribble of holy water running down his forehead, affronted by the laughing comments and oohs and aahs, aggravated by the ribbons and ruffles on his gown and the lace on his cap. They’d pay one day, they’d all pay, just as soon as he figured out who they all were.

Intoning aloud for his tiny cousin the promises of lifelong devotion to God and church, the rejection of Satan and all his wicked ways, his “uncle” Fitz chuckled at the impressive display of impatience, the seven pounds of hubris encased in satin. And while family and friends gathered round to wish the newest addition into their privileged world a holy and happy life, the realization came to the boy’s adoring father that this would probably be the first in a lifetime of family gatherings, both happy and sad, to be shared between the Darcy and Fitzwilliam households.

As he listened to the head of the Church of England explain the spiritual as well as physical role of parents in a child’s life, the importance of godparents, the love of family and ritual, Darcy’s thoughts drifted back to a little country assembly hall where he had condescended to dance only with Caroline Bingley and her sister, Mrs. Hurst. His friend, their brother, Charles, had indicated a sweet-looking young thing, the sister of the beautiful girl with whom he had danced, sitting out the current set due to scarcity of partners, egging him on to dance with her.

Elizabeth. His beloved, beautiful, Elizabeth.

“She is tolerable, ” he had brayed like a donkey within her hearing, “but not handsome enough to tempt me. And I am in no humor at present to give consequence to young ladies who are slighted by other men.”

Smiling down on her lovely face now, he squeezed her hand tenderly as it rested snugly within his elbow. She had brought him love and joy and family. His world was richer because of her. “I love you, Miss Bennet,” he whispered in her ear, moved by the tears of happiness shining in her eyes.

“I had not known you a month before I felt that you were the last man in the world whom I could ever be prevailed upon to marry.” She laughed softly as her insulting rejection of his first marriage proposal flashed through her memory. Then she sighed. He was magnificent and handsome and noble. Her world was richer because of him.

“No more than I love you, Mr. Darcy.”

Epilogue

Shortly before Easter, 1850

Darcy joined his cousin as he rested outside on the grand terraced veranda. He carried hidden within his coat a bottle of whiskey, two glasses, and a carafe of water, proudly brandishing them as he approached. Fitzwilliam had already been alerted by the clinking and clanking of the glassware and was now waiting patiently on one of two large lawn chairs they had placed for optimal viewing of the vast driveway into Pemberley.

“I say, Buccleuch?” Darcy loudly called out, greatly enjoying his cousin’s annoyance.

“Damn it to hell, brat, you know how I detest being called that. Why do you persist?”

“Well, if you’re going to answer your own questions, I wonder that you even waste your breath.”

Fitzwilliam emitted a derogatory sound through his clenched lips.

“No mouth farts, please.” Darcy glowed with pleasure. “Has Amanda reconciled herself to becoming a duchess yet?” He carefully placed his purloined goodies onto the table and then settled himself in his own chair.

Fitzwilliam harrumphed. “She was only recently coming to terms with being an earl’s wife after… how many decades has it been? Now it appears it was my fault all my old cousins died childless within a year of each other.” Richard took the glass that Darcy offered and watched eagerly as the whiskey was poured. “She hates the name, you know, says it sounds as if someone is coughing up phlegm. She cannot stop laughing whenever we are addressed.” His mood brightened considerably, relishing their rare treat. “How did you get this past the old gargoyles?” He smacked his lips at the forbidden taste.

“Really, Richard, I am the master of my home, the king of my domain.” With an indignant huff, Darcy lowered himself deeper into the chair, elegantly repositioning his cuffs and collar.

“I imagine that is why you hid the bottle as you walked by the windows.”