by Beau North
He started to look forward to his morphine more and more. At first, that soft oblivion bothered him. He hadn’t liked the loss of control, but once he surrendered to it, he found that his ghosts could not follow him into that violet-hued sleep. Better to have false peace than no peace at all.
“Sir?” The young ensign reminded him of his presence.
“Got a date tonight, sailor?” Richard let the Southern drawl creep into his voice, remembering how the admiral had always hated that.
“Sir?” The ensign peeked around the curtained area. Richard sighed. The kid was like a broken record. He didn’t want to see the old man, but the admiral clearly wouldn’t be giving him a choice in the matter. They hadn’t spoken face-to-face in two years. He might as well get it over with.
“What’s the time?” The ensign looked at his watch. Clocks were not common in Frenchay. Richard found himself wishing he still had the wristwatch that Darcy gave him the day he left, but he lost it in Avranches.
“Fourteen thirty, sir.” Only a half hour until the nurse arrived with another dose of morphine. He wondered whether he could finagle a vial to take with him to Liverpool when the time came.
“Tell the admiral I will come to him when I’ve been cleared for travel,” Richard said, counting the minutes until he found oblivion again.
With a groan, Richard rolled over, stuffing the corner of his blanket into his mouth. It helped quiet the chattering of his teeth as the poison left his body. Even as he lay there, jerking and sweating and freezing, his traitor body screaming that it wasn’t poison but medicine. If only he’d been quicker, he might not have been caught in the dispensary, but the medicine had dulled him, made him slow and clumsy. And now he was being punished, three days in a locked room while the sickness seeped out of his pores. He needed the peace, the calm it brought him. Why couldn’t they see that?
The room was small, barely bigger than a closet, with a mattress, a sink, and a toilet. He had forfeited his dignity when he’d been caught stealing. The hospital administrator had agreed not to report him on the condition that he agree to “take the cure,” which amounted to days of sickness, feverish, sleepless nights.
He wanted to die. He would have thought the shame of it would have killed him already, but the goddamned pain…it held him pinned to the thin mattress, slabs of stone laid across his body and spirit. Sleep was impossible, but sometimes he drifted in a strange, in-between place between waking and sleep. He saw his mother’s face there and woke up certain he’d been weeping.
Let this end. By hook or by crook, just let it all end.
December 1944
Faulkner Square
Liverpool, England
Navigating the snowy street with a cane had proven to be more of a challenge than Richard had bargained. The snow had only started falling that day, obscuring the harbor and the ocean behind it. Richard double-checked the address before ringing the bell. A sallow man with a wispy mustache let him in and took his coat. Richard looked around, unsurprised that his father would have chosen to quarter himself in such a stern and colorless home.
An ensign came out to meet him. “Good to see you again, sir.”
“Have we met?” Richard thought he seemed familiar, but there were great swaths of his memory that were still fuzzy.
“In Bristol, three months ago.” Richard nodded. The morphine. It had taken weeks for the poison to leave his system, and even then, he felt a tremor in his hand at the thought of it.
“The admiral’s waiting—just this way,” the young man said smoothly. His father’s aide probably would’ve been informed of all the particulars of Richard’s recovery, including his reluctance to give up the wonderful morphine. The admiral never believed in secrets, which was exactly why Richard had always been so determined to keep them.
The ensign led him back to a study, lit with oil lanterns and heated by a fire crackling in the fireplace. The walls were a green so deep it was only a few shades away from being black, giving the room an uncomfortable feeling of tightness despite its lofty ceiling. The room had once held a great many books; the smell of leather bindings and old paper were still strong. Now the shelves were bare—its treasures carried off, or sold, or burned for warmth.
His father was much the same as he was the last time Richard had seen him, stern-faced and cold, though he seemed to have aged at least ten years. His skin was paper-thin, his hair no longer silvery-blonde but white. He was more severe than ever.
“Admiral Fitzwilliam, sir,” the ensign said. The admiral looked up at his only living son, his blue-green eyes still sharp and clear despite his age.
“Dismissed,” he said casually. The ensign left the room, closing the door behind him. Richard fought the urge to straighten his uniform under his father’s sharp gaze. His clothes still hung on him like an old sack.
“So…you’re still recovering.” The admiral nodded toward the cane in Richard’s hand.
“Another operation was required. Only last month.”
“You’ve lost weight.”
“And yet I’ve retained my movie star looks.”
The admiral frowned. “News from home,” he said, rattling a piece of paper in front of him. “Your investment in Darcy’s munitions factory seems to have paid off well.”
Richard wanted to laugh. “Is that why I’m here?” His father leaned forward, eyes cutting into him.
“I allowed you to use your inheritance from your grandfather’s estate for this investment with the stipulation that you maintain a seat on the board of trustees. Now you can go home and see to your responsibilities.”
“My responsibilities are out there.” Richard bristled, pointing east, where his men were fighting. They would be in The Ardennes by then, and Richard meant to join them.
“This war is all but over,” the admiral said dismissively. “By the time you are fit to return for duty—which doesn’t seem likely—it will be over. I see no reason why you shouldn’t convalesce at home.”
“The investment was for Darcy. Not for you.”
“It’s already done,” his father said, looking down at his desk. “I pulled some strings. You’ve been discharged for a week now. You will ship out in two days.”
“This must be a fucking joke.” Richard did laugh this time. He’d lost his brother, his position, pieces of his body, and more than a little of his sanity, only to be felled by one old man behind a desk. The admiral looked up, his eyes furious.
“You will not use that tone, or that language, in the presence of a superior officer! Do I make myself clear?”
Richard pointed his cane at his father. “You just had me discharged, so right now you’re just a superior asshole!” His words brought the admiral to his feet, his fists planted on the desk in front of him.
“You are a disappointment as a military officer and a disappointment as a son!”
Richard threw his cane against the heavy marble mantelpiece, where it cracked into two jagged pieces. The sound was as sharp as gunfire in the empty room.
“Go ahead!” Richard roared. “Say it! Say the thing you’ve been waiting to say for two fucking years! I know how much it kills you that I’m the one still standing, and James didn’t even make it six lousy months!”
“James,” his father said, nodding, cold satisfaction in his eyes.
And why not? All our cards are on the table now.
“James was a good son. He understood family and duty. Things you’ll never grasp! I wish—”
“Please,” Richard said, quaking with grief and rage. “Say it.”
“It should have been you I lost. Not my James.”
Richard nodded. It was much as he’d expected.
December 1944
Dear D,
They’re flying me home. I’ll stay at the house in Gramercy Park for a night and then take the train down to you. Pick me up in Lambton on Sunday, the 23rd? I’ll be back in time for Christmas.
Until then,
RF
H
e didn’t need to know what Darcy thought of his appearance. He’d seen it as soon as he stepped off the train, the way the blood drained from his cousin’s face, the moment before he recovered himself. One for sorrow, two for joy. The nursery rhyme had taken root in his mind since his departure for Liverpool. Richard found the repetition calmed him.
“I know, I look a fright. Still better looking than you.”
“Richie, good lord.” Darcy managed a hug that was careful and suffocating at once. They climbed into the waiting sedan.
“You drove yourself?” Richard felt his brows raise. Darcy gave him a withering look.
“Not only did I drive myself, I’ve spent the last three months driving trucks from the orchards, with us being so shorthanded.”
Richard leaned away, scrutinizing his cousin. He’d not seen Darcy for three years, and those years had marked them both. Of course, Darcy was still the tall drink of water he’d always been, perhaps a trifle more unkempt than Richard could recall, but he still bore his father’s good looks and his mother’s refined air. But he seemed bent under some new weight. Where Richard had become a gaunt specter of his former self, Darcy seemed to have turned inward, the walls behind his eyes bolstered by the solitude that comes with great responsibility. Sensing his scrutiny, Darcy decided to fill the silence with chatter.
“Georgie’s chomping at the bit to see you.”
“Champing, not chomping.” To this, Darcy rolled his eyes and grinned, but it struck false to Richard. A show put on for his benefit. Three for a girl, four for a boy.
“She must have shot up like a weed since the last time I saw her.”
Darcy nodded, turning up the winding drive to Pemberley Manor. “Getting bigger every day. She’s looking more and more like a Fitzwilliam too.”
Richard grunted. “Lucky kid.”
The clean air of Pemberley filled his lungs, clearing his head. He felt stronger, the tingle of possibility prickling his skin.
“Is my bike still here?”
Darcy gave him a wary, sidelong glance. “Of course. You asked me to maintain it for you.”
Richard nodded. “Thanks for that.”
“Don’t thank me. Stevens kept it running. All I did was drive it around every so often.”
“What, the scion of the mighty Darcy family, flying around on a two-wheeled death machine?”
Darcy scoffed. The peaks of Pemberley’s roof were visible over the skeletal arms of the winter-bare trees. Richard noted that the grounds were a little wilder than he’d ever seen, with blackberry brambles creeping in from the edges of the wood.
“I know, it looks awful,” Darcy said. “We couldn’t really keep the grounds staffed as well as we liked. We had some women from Lambton helping, but we decided to let the blackberries grow in. Food is food. Here we go―I never get tired of this moment.”
They rounded a bend in the drive, at last revealing the whole of the manor. It never failed to steal Richard’s breath, the size and beauty of it, the flood of warm memories that usually accompanied that first full view. Richard was unsurprised to find that this time there was no flood of memories, no warmth. There was...nothing. It was a lovely pile of stone and brass and leaded glass, but every tender feeling hovered just beyond his reach.
“Was it very bad here?” he asked his cousin.
“It could have been much worse. We had good crops. We weren’t nearly down to eating nettles like they’re doing across the pond.”
“Ugh, don’t remind me.” Richard made a face. “In the hospital, you got tinned meat and veg at least, but I would have killed for a cup of real coffee.”
Darcy smiled and parked in front of the massive oak doors. “I’m sure we can accommodate you here.”
The door opened and the housekeeper, Mrs. Reynolds, upright as an iron rod, emerged with Georgiana in tow. Richard was immediately taken aback. She’d grown much taller in the three years since he’d seen her; her face had shed some of its baby fat, and her hair had darkened from bright yellow blonde to a more sandy color much like his own. He saw the momentary fear in her eyes at the sight of him, quickly replaced with a welcoming smile.
But seeing her afraid of him—even for a moment—stung him deeply.
“Pardon me, madam, I was wondering if you’d seen my little cousin Georgie? She’s about yea high, has a fondness for Nancy Drew mysteries?”
She blushed and flung herself at him. The top of her head came nearly to his chin.
“I don’t read Nancy Drew anymore,” she said in a tear-choked voice.
“Hey now, kid. None of that. Save your tears for a worthier cause.”
Trying to sleep was pointless. Richard tossed and turned in the big, comfortable bed, still feeling the jagged edges of need digging into him. His brief time with morphine had been a delirious detour from his life. When he floated in that giddy, in-between place, he was free from the anguish of having his body torn open and reassembled, free from visions of the German soldier’s knife digging into this chest. He was free from his father, free from the memory of James. Now, his mind seemed determined to make up for lost time. He flopped on his back, remembering the argument in Liverpool, how his father had turned and left the room, slamming the door on him for good. His skin felt like ice, his blood like fire. Everything was contrariety. Even there at Pemberley, where he knew that he was safe and loved, gave him the impression of a trap springing closed around him.
The thought of attending board meetings and running the family businesses—the shipbuilding in Maryland, the steel mills in Minnesota, the newspapers in New York and Chicago—a certain disaster in his current state. Besides, he knew for a fact that his father had very little to do with the actual running of these businesses. All were managed by more capable and less damaged men. What his father wanted was him to be the next stern-faced public figurehead of the Fitzwilliam Estate. Well, he could stick that right up his nose as far as Richard was concerned. That role had always been destined for James, never for him. Richard had spent his entire life building a reputation that would preclude any such future for him.
He sat up, wrapping his arms around his knees and rocking back and forth. He’d been prone to sudden fits of anxiety as a child after his mother’s accident, fits that would steal his breath and make it feel as though his racing heart was trying to crawl up his throat. These episodes only made the admiral more contemptuous of him. He was a young man, and young men didn’t get carried away with fits. Especially not Fitzwilliam men. Fitzwilliam men faced the day with clear eyes, unfettered by loneliness or torment or, god forbid, boredom. At twenty-eight years old, he was only just realizing that he’d learned to deflect his pain through jokes or, years later, through sex. A wave of guilt crashed over him at the thought. He wondered how he and James had ever survived the burden of their name.
“We didn’t, Richie.” The answer slipped into his mind like a cold wind creeping through a flimsy window. He didn’t know if it was James’s voice or his own that he heard, but it was enough to break the fragile defenses he’d had in place since he left that awful house in Liverpool. It was true. He put his head on his knees and allowed his tears to come at last, crying for James, for the boy he’d been and the man he’d never be. He cried for his mother, sitting alone in a care home, unaware that her children were lost and gone. He cried for Darcy, who would probably blame himself, and Georgiana and Anne. He cried for Private Landry and Adam Carter, and even Mateo Bertram, who’d been carried off the battlefield on a stretcher, fate unknown. He cried for the throngs of women whose beds he’d abandoned after a night, for all the hearts he’d broken. At least those days were behind him.
When he’d cried himself out, he wiped his face and looked at the window. Dawn had broken sometime during his bout of tears, but the sun had yet to clear the horizon. It was a foggy, gray morning. Richard got up and went to the window.
Is this my last morning? The clenched fist in his chest relaxed at the thought, the idea that he wouldn’t have to feel this
way much longer. He breathed a little deeper and turned his back to the window. It was the picture above the fireplace that caught his eye. He and James and Darcy as boys, arms around the others’ shoulders while they stood squinting in the afternoon sun. Young Will Darcy held a frayed baseball glove while his cousins held a battered old baseball and the Louisville slugger they used for games. Guilt nagged at him again. He couldn’t do anything there at Pemberley.
Your bike is here. Take it to Wilmington. See the ocean one more time. He liked the thought. He never felt at home unless he could see the water.
7
March 2, 1945
Addr:
Kent Detective Agency
4241 42nd Street
New York, New York
Dear Sir,
I’m writing you in response to our conversation in late January of this year. I spoke to you about my cousin, Richard Fitzwilliam, who stayed with me in my home two nights shortly after returning from the Front. Without notice to myself, my sister, or any of our household staff, Mr. Fitzwilliam left my home and has not been seen or heard from since, by myself or any of our family or mutual acquaintances. His finances, which I was given power of attorney over while he was engaged with the army, remain untouched.
I searched his family home and found the enclosed, an address book containing the names and telephone numbers of a great number of social acquaintances. When I contracted your services, you assured me of your discretion. I would ask for your continued discretion in viewing the contents of this “little black book.” Some of the names are the wives of well-known or high-placed figures. Know that I have carefully read our contract with your agency and am fully aware of your obligations to protect my family’s privacy, and rest assured my attorneys are aware of the same.
