Karen Wasylowski - Darcy and Fitzwilliam: A Tale of a Gentleman and an Officer

“It is just not my way, Anthony.” She sighed deeply. “I was not raised to carry out the sort of life they lead here. I do not understand these people and I doubt that I could ever be capable of having a relationship outside of marriage vows. I couldn’t, could I? No, it is not in my upbringing, but I love him so very much. Oh, I don’t know what I should do! You understand this, as a Catholic, don’t you? I mean, would it not feel sinful?”

“Only if he is very skillful…”

It had taken only a moment then for Amanda to swat the back of Anthony’s head very, very hard.

***

Remembering, he shook his head and chuckled at his own witticism. “Only if he is very skillful,” he repeated to his reflection in the mirror. Very clever, Antonio, he complimented himself and smiled, once again at peace and happily looking forward to drinking his very expensive imported French brandy, eating an exquisite meal prepared by his very expensive French chef, and relaxing for hours in the arms of his latest paramour, due at any moment.

Life was, indeed, very good for Dr. Anthony Milagros.

As the valet adjusted the lapels of Anthony’s exquisite dinner jacket, his butler scratched discreetly at the dressing-room door. “Enter, Bascome.” Swirling a brandy snifter around several times, Anthony took his initial sip, savoring the sweet nectar as he regarded his butler’s visage in the mirror.

The ancient gentleman gazed back.

Anthony raised his eyebrows in question and waited. They remained staring silently at each other in the mirror for quite a few moments, the tottering butler apparently unable to vocalize. Anthony finally turned toward him and finished off his drink. “Well?”

“Your lordship…” Bascome appeared distressed.

“Yes, old friend,” he said patiently and with mild humor. “I know who I am. What is it you wish to say to me?” Anthony smiled warmly at this most beloved of servants and dear old confidant. “Out with it, please. Be courageous, man. Is there a problem with the salmon? Has the cook overdone some sauce again? What is today’s disaster? What?”

As he began to fuss with the cuffs of his shirt, adjusting their length until just the proper amount of lace peeked from the sleeve of his jacket, he suddenly groaned. “If it is the champagne ices, I am afraid you will have to deal with the wine steward yourself this time. He terrifies me.”

The butler grimaced, sadly shaking his head. “Your lordship,” he intoned again, “it is with great regret that I must inform you… there is a British officer here to see you.”

Anthony froze. “Sorry? What did you say?”

“A quite massive British officer, a colonel, I believe, wishes to see you. He is in a somewhat emotional state.” Bascome removed a large white handkerchief from his cuff to dab at his brow. “Truth be told, sir, this is the first Englishman I have seen in any emotion. It is an unnerving and ugly sight and— Mother of the Divine Savior, intercede for us— he has a sword on his side that he keeps touching and— God have mercy on our souls—I believe a pistol hidden within his uniform.” The elderly butler stuffed his sodden cloth back into his pocket and attempted to stand at full attention, his arthritic five-foot-five-inch aching frame poised for the defense of his master. He dropped his voice several octaves. “Shall I summon the constabulary?”

Anthony blinked for several moments as his extremities became numb. “ Merde… I will kill her one day. Ah, I have dreams, Bascome, oh yes, wonderful dreams of a world without my dearest Amanda. We will ship her remains to Greece. I have people there you know. No one would suspect.” He studied the terrified old man and reined in his rhetoric. “I go down directly. Please pour yourself a glass of brandy. You look as if you are about to have a seizure. Put your feet up, old friend, all will be fine.” He pointed to a chair, and when he was certain his butler was settled, he turned to contemplate his own certain death.

“May I help you?” Fitzwilliam turned to see the familiar and elegant gentleman peering at him from the doorway. “Ah! Colonel Fitzwilliam, how good to see you again. It has been too long.” Despite voicing such welcoming pleasantries, however, Milagros did not approach him or extend his hand for greeting. Fitzwilliam was not displeased—it denied him the opportunity to encircle the good doctor’s throat with his hands.

“Yes, it has been a while, Doctor. I trust you are well.” Without waiting for an answer, Fitzwilliam continued. “I wonder if I could have a moment of your time.” Fitzwilliam absently rested his hand on his sword and had the satisfaction of seeing Milagros’s eyes nervously follow.

“Of course, Colonel. Please have a seat. My home is your home.” The gentleman sauntered into the room and motioned for Fitzwilliam to sit. He himself then sat at some distance away, crossing one leg over the other. “Can I have my butler provide you with anything, Colonel? Port? Brandy? Hostages?” He laughed anxiously, quickly quieting into a subdued cough, and then ended with a penitential throat clearing.

“This is not a pleasure call, Milagros.”

Resting his elbow on the chair arm, Anthony cupped his chin while he perused his visitor. “’More’s the pity,’” was his mumbled response.

Fitzwilliam had a fleeting impression that he was receiving a sort of sexual scrutiny from the man. He shook off this impression as hysteria or lack of sleep or gas. “I have come to discuss your relationship with Amanda Penrod.”

Anthony’s eyebrows rose momentarily. “My goodness, we are direct, aren’t we?” He cleared his throat. “Yes, well, I have been expecting you.” A hand went up to smooth his already perfect hair.

“If you have been expecting me, then you must know what I have come to discuss with you, gentleman to gentleman.”

“I have a fairly good idea.” Milagros settled back into his chair, slouching in an attitude of evidently benign indifference, while in reality, his heart pounded. His fingers pinched at his lower lip while he assessed his opponent. Suddenly he spoke. “Let me make this somewhat easier for you, Colonel.”

Fitzwilliam was confused. He had been prepared for mental and mortal combat; however, the man before him did not appear as one whose affections for another were being threatened or challenged. This man seemed totally indifferent to that situation. In fact, as the minutes ticked on, Fitzwilliam began to feel uneasy, anxious, exposed. He shifted uncomfortably, crossing his legs as Anthony’s gaze drifted downward, taking in all of his body, from his boyishly disheveled hair, the rumpled colonel’s uniform jacket that emphasized the muscled arms and large chest, then down to a perusal of the tree-trunk legs encased in his white uniform trousers, and his well-worn boots.

Milagros sighed and muttered something.

“I told Amanda you would come here.” He spoke in a very matter-of-fact manner, drumming his fingers on his chair arm. “I told her it was a ridiculous story, but as you may or may not know, she can often be very stubborn. Dios mio, to call her stubborn is an insult to mules.”

Fitzwilliam sank slowly onto the settee. “What in blazes are you talking about?” In total bewilderment, he watched as the doctor stood to pour out a brandy from the decanter next to him and then down it in one gulp. Richard waved off one for himself. Anthony shrugged, finished off that second one also and sat down, holding tightly onto his third drink.

“Are you in love with Amanda, Colonel?” Milagros’s eyes peered at him from above his brandy glass. That second drink had given him a slightly more courageous tongue.

“Goddamn you to hell! Of all the impertinent, rude questions! Listen to me, Milagros, a man would have to have lost all common sense to get involved with a woman in possession of that sort of temper! She has no conception of restraint, does she?”

“Normally I would defend her with my very last breath. However, no, she does not. But that did not answer my question, did it? Do you love her?”

“Ha!” Fitzwilliam snorted his derision. “You must be insane! She is a good deal too unpredictable for my tastes. No, no, no, that’s too kind of an assessment. Actually, I suspect she is mentally unstable. Yes. That’s a more accurate description of her true personality. She possesses serious mental impairments.”

“But do you love her?”

“Well, yes, dammit! Of course I love her, you idiot! Do you think I’d be here making a bloody fool of myself for any other reason? Now, I want to know from you what is going on, because I cannot get a sensible word from her mouth. Are you bedding her? Have you made her an honorable offer?”

“You English aristocrats are so amoral that you are unable to entertain a thought above your waist.” Anthony huffed. “It is extremely unromantic.”

Fitzwilliam slowly turned his head, and then with a menacing look, he leaned on the table, resting his weight on his fists.

“I always make the mistake of saying exactly what I am thinking at the moment. Very unfortunate…” Anthony’s voice shook as it rambled on into silence. He passed a hand over his eyes. “You realize that if you kill me, someone will figure it out. I bleed profusely.”

“One last time, Milagros. Are you and she betrothed? I have been making inquiries. Those who know of you believe you are secretly involved with someone, although no one seems to know whom. Was Amanda married when you began this affair? Is that it, Milagros? Is she the reason none of the ton ’s mamas can lure you into an alliance? Is it she who has been your secret lover?” Fitzwilliam’s voice was now barely above a whisper.

“ Dios mio.” Anthony ran his fingers through his hair. “You are going to make me say this out loud, aren’t you?” Anthony’s voice quivered, and his stomach roiled, but Fitzwilliam continued to glare, his fury barely under control. He finally had enough.

“Answer me, damn you!!”

Anthony leaned forward, all the color drained from his face. “Please understand, Colonel, that what I tell you now could have me imprisoned or worse.”

Startled, Fitzwilliam eyed him suspiciously. “What is going on here, Milagros?” He had not anticipated this line of argument.

Anthony angrily began muttering something in Spanish about Amanda, his hands poking wildly at certain emphatic declarations, then mopped at perspiration running down the back of his neck.

Fitzwilliam was listening intently, trying to grasp a word from the too-rapid Spanish, when he suddenly heard a sneeze from the hallway. He stiffened and spun toward the closed door. “Is she here?” He spoke low, but his mouth had set into a cruel, clenched line.

Anthony’s head shot up quickly as he too turned toward the hallway. Alarmed and tense, he began to rise.

“Colonel, listen to me! You are under the impression, I believe, that you and I are in some sort of competition for the affections of Amanda, are you not?” Fitzwilliam said nothing but continued to glower. “ That is your mistake. You see, in actuality, it would be Amanda and I…” Glancing at the door, Anthony swallowed hard and lowered his voice. He coughed and cleared his throat. “It was Amanda and I in a competition for you.”

Fitzwilliam heard a muffled male voice spit out the words “bloody hell” from the corridor, followed by running footsteps, then a door slamming. Anthony groaned and started toward the doorway. “Edmund, wait!” he called just before another door somewhere deep in the house slammed shut. Within moments, a carriage raced from the back of the house and onto the street.

Fitzwilliam and Anthony stared at the closed door for several minutes, then both turned to watch through the French doors as the carriage careened wildly down the driveway. Anthony dropped into the chair, his head falling backward onto the headrest.

“Merde!” he whispered miserably.

Fitzwilliam’s eyes were huge as saucers as he turned slowly in stunned silence. “Beg pardon?” he managed finally to say.

Anthony’s second nightly delight after his warmed brandy—the superb meal that his chef had prepared with such care—was quickly relegated to the trash. It was now near midnight, and the two men sat silently before the fireplace, each wallowing in his own lovelorn misery. Emptied bottles of wine were scattered amidst the tobacco pouches and cheroot ashes.