The Colonel

by Beau North

  “Well, she doesn’t know that. I’m afraid after the way I acted, she’d think the worst kind of reprobate is better than me.”

  Georgiana narrowed her eyes at him. “What did you do, Richard?”

  “I left. And more than that, I won’t say.” He put a hand on her shoulder. “That’s how I know I don’t have to worry about you, Georgie. Crushes and infatuations…they happen to the best of us. Even your brother has been known to have the occasional infatuation. But love…real, true love…when it comes along, you’ll know it. Love’s a wildfire that eats everything in its path. You can’t hide it. You can’t hide from it.”

  “I see,” she said, looking down at her hands in her lap. He gave her shoulder a squeeze, kissed her temple before putting his hands back on the keys.

  “Now,” he said, grinning at her, “let me teach you some songs that’ll turn your brother’s hair white.”

  June 13, 1947

  Pemberley Manor

  Lambton

  Silk and chiffon whispered against her skin as she dove into her mother’s closet, looking for a suitcase. It couldn’t be just any suitcase. She had a set of her own, but it was a girlish shade of powder blue, something a child would carry. She wanted something a woman, albeit a young woman, would own. There, in the back, a chic suitcase in rich black leather with AFD stamped across it in gold lettering. Georgiana sat on her knees and opened the brass catches, which could have stood a good polishing.

  Inside, the case was an emerald-colored velvet. No scrap of Anne Fitzwilliam Darcy remained here, despite her having traveled the world with this case, along with the half dozen others that stood sentry in the back of the enormous closet. She didn’t need a half dozen, she only needed this one.

  “Pack light,” George had advised her. That wasn’t difficult. While William insisted that she dress for holidays, she had very little by way of the usual girlish frippery. A few dresses, some bits of gold jewelry. She much preferred dressing to ride in sturdy clothes. The only time she ever wore dresses was when she knew Aunt Catherine would be around, but, being surrounded by her mother’s beautiful gowns, she paused, wondering. She stood and ran her hands across the rows of rich fabrics, some faded with time and in need of a good wash but all the best quality. Her eyes found one dress, rather old fashioned with a low waist and square neckline in a pattern of pink petals, embellished by a velvet ribbon the color of raspberries. She wondered where her mother had worn this dress. She tried to picture it and could conjure nothing. The fabric was a light silk chiffon, gauzy and translucent with a lining the same color of raspberries. How would she look in this dress? Like a woman, or a little girl pretending to be one? She slipped it from its hanger, holding it up to her. In the mirror, she just saw herself, but the pink brought some color into her cheeks and lips, her eyes seemed brighter, her hair more ash than gold. She hesitated only a moment before folding it carefully and placing it into the suitcase.

  June 15, 1947

  Dear William,

  Please don’t be angry with me when you read this. I won’t be gone forever. George and I are in love, and we’re going to get married. I know what you’ll say, that I’m too young and that it’s too sudden, but I’ve known my feelings for quite a while now. The only people I love more are you and Richard. I’ll see you soon, Brother.

  All my love,

  Georgiana

  Head in his hands, Darcy stared down at the rectangle of stationery on the center of his empty desk, his sister’s slanted, looping cursive damning him with every word.

  “You’ve read it a hundred times,” Richard said from the door, exhaustion heavy in his voice.

  “And I’ll read it a hundred more,” Darcy shot back. He looked up at his cousin, who looked almost as sleep deprived as he was. “Anything?”

  Richard shook his head. “Not yet. But Carter is on it, and he’s the best in the business. He’ll find them.”

  Four days. Four days since he’d come into this room to find this note waiting for him. Four days of sleepless hell. Four days of wanting to put his hands around Wickham’s neck until the bastard turned blue. He’d torn apart Pemberley first, hoping they hadn’t gotten far. The estate was big; it would be easy for two people who didn’t want to be found to hide. Then he searched every establishment in Lambton, quietly, giving funds or promises of future favors in exchange for discretion. Both searches had been fruitless. He was packing to leave, no idea where to even start looking, when Richard had stepped in and contacted his friend Adam Carter, who now oversaw an expansive private investigation agency. “I’ll pay anything,” he’d told the patient detective. “Just find her.”

  Darcy thought about the bottle of whiskey in his desk drawer and quickly dismissed the temptation. What if Georgie called, needing help, and he was blind drunk?

  “This is all my fault,” he groaned. “I shouldn’t have pushed her so hard.”

  Richard sat down across from him. Darcy found a bitter sort of humor in the knowledge that it was the same place his sister once sat when they’d been discussing Richard’s vanishing act. Why do the people I love keep running away? Richard, unaware of this juxtaposition, sighed and ran a hand through his hair.

  “Your only fault was giving Wickham the benefit of the doubt, D. He’s always been a toady and a sneak.”

  “Not helping.”

  Richard put his hands up. “Sorry. This is just…” He gestured helplessly.

  Darcy nodded. “That it is.” He sat back a moment, studying Richard. Aside from his cousin’s mussed hair, he was remarkably put together of late. His eyes were clearer, his quiet moods less frequent.

  “Richard. There’s something I’ve been meaning to talk to you about.”

  Richard pointed a finger-gun at him. “Shoot.”

  “I’ve had my will changed recently.”

  “Let me guess. You’ve decided to defy convention and you’re leaving everything to your horse. It’s a bad idea, D. Everyone knows Auberon can’t stay away from the roulette wheel.”

  “Ha, ha, asshole. No, I won’t be leaving anything to the horse, unless you count the assurance of a long and comfortable life. No, I…I’ve named you as Georgiana’s guardian, in case anything should happen to me.”

  He watched the blood drain from Richard’s face. “Very funny, Will.”

  “I’m not joking. And you may have to bear the responsibility sooner rather than later. This kid is going to put me into an early grave.”

  Richard grew serious. “Will…you know…you know that I’m not.” He took a deep breath and tried again, looking him right in the eyes. “You know that I’m not well.”

  “Would you ever hurt her?”

  Richard stood so quickly he nearly knocked his chair over. “No, never! I love that kid like she was my baby sister!”

  “We’ve all seen things,” Darcy said, his eyes far-off. It was his mother he was thinking of just then. Her open eyes, her cold skin.

  Richard sank back into his chair. “You’ve already done it, haven’t you?”

  “There’s no one else I trust, Richie. And besides you, there’s only―”

  “Aunt Catherine,” Richard finished, making a face.

  “Exactly. I’m sure Anne would do her best, but―”

  “She wouldn’t stand a chance.”

  Darcy watched the determination settle into the lines on Richard’s face.

  “I…I’ll do my best, Cuz. You know I would.”

  “I know, Richie. In fact—”

  Ring! Ring! The phone jangled to life on the desk between them. Richard grabbed the receiver.

  “Carter?”

  Richard’s eyes met his, suddenly paralyzed by sudden terror. What if something had happened to her? He’d be alone in the world. Mother, father, sister, all gone. His mouth went dry. He felt a little sick.

  It was the smile, the wide, impossibly sunny smile that broke across Richard’s face that told him everything he needed to know. He put a hand over the receiver.


  “They found her, D. They found her, and she’s all right.”

  Darcy collapsed back in his chair, covering his face with his hands. He might have wept, or laughed, or both; he couldn’t be sure. When he looked back up, Richard was writing something on the back of a piece of paper. Georgiana’s note, Darcy realized. The words, written in pencil, stood out like a brand burned right into the desk. New Orleans. St. Cecelia’s.

  Richard paced the family rooms like a rangy lion, making sure everything was in order, every vase filled, and every curtain open to bright spring sunshine. He was so formidable the way he stalked about the place. He’d even heard Mrs. Reynolds mutter that the dust wouldn’t dare settle under his glower. A new letter from Evie burned in his pocket, but he knew it would be useless to read it now when he was so anxious and full of self-reproach.

  He blamed himself, of course. It’s one thing he couldn’t bring himself to tell Darcy when they’d had the monumental discussion of Georgiana’s guardianship. He was the one who’d filled her head with all that romantic nonsense. What had romance ever gotten anybody? What had it gained him, or Georgiana? Or Elizabeth for that matter? Broken hearts strewn across a battlefield.

  “You’re a goddamned horse’s ass, Fitz,” he muttered to himself. “Filling a teenage girl’s head up like that.”

  No doubt Evie would tell him he was being too hard on himself. She seemed to say that a lot. She was either too forgiving or hadn’t gotten to know him very well yet.

  He could hear commotion in the front hall—Mrs. Reynolds calling out that they were back. Richard rushed into the wide corridor, down the grand staircase, and into the formal front entrance of the house. Georgiana was in his arms a second later, her body shaking with sobs. He stroked her hair and held her tightly, letting her cry. He looked over at Darcy, who was tired and rumpled from the long trip, but looking years younger than he had just days ago. He gave Richard a grateful smile and nodded.

  “Oh, Richard, how can anyone be so stupid?” she said tearfully. “I was such a fool to think he cared about me.”

  “There, there, kiddo. You’re home now, and that’s all that matters.”

  “Should I set out dinner?” Mrs. Reynolds asked, dusting some speck of lint from Darcy’s shirtsleeves. She’d always doted on them as if they were her own.

  “In about an hour, I think, Mrs. R. I’m desperate for a shower.” He turned to his sister, who had untangled herself from Richard. “Georgiana? Would you like some supper?”

  She shook her head. “No, thank you. I’m just…” A deep, shuddering sigh escaped her. “I’m just so tired. Can I just go to my room and sleep?”

  “Of course. We’re both here if you need anything.”

  She gave them both a tremulous smile and walked up to the family apartments, shoulders bent.

  Richard waited until she was out of sight before turning to Darcy.

  “Is it done?”

  He nodded before rubbing his eyes with the heels of his hands.

  “You know my choice would have been to let him rot in some backwater prison, but the judge gave him a choice. Jail or the army.”

  “And we shouldn’t be so lucky as to think he’d take the former.”

  “Wickham reported for training this morning. I saw him to Fort Oglethorpe myself and promised him the wrath of God if he ever darkened our door again.”

  “And still, it’s not half of what he deserves.”

  Darcy smiled, but his eyes were cold as the grave. “It’s an account I look forward to settling, someday.”

  He picked up his bag and sighed. “How does someone with all the advantages George was born with end up so rotten, romancing a girl like my sister, only to abandon her?”

  Shame slid through him, too slippery to catch before it spread.

  “I had all of those same advantages,” he said before he could stop himself. It was not Wickham and Georgiana he thought of then but himself and another young woman.

  Darcy cocked his head, looking puzzled. “I know you’ve got a reputation, but you’re not Wickham.”

  Richard looked down at his feet. He uttered one word, like a door slamming shut forever.

  “Charleston.”

  Understanding dawned on Darcy’s face. “I see,” he said. “Do you…er…want to talk about it?”

  “No. Never.” And with that he spun on his heel and marched from the room, leaving Darcy to see to himself.

  11

  BEN

  June 25, 2002

  New York, New York

  It felt so strange, feeling so sluggish and ungainly, while the city buzzed around him with its usual energy. He felt old suddenly, a complete reversal of the boyish confidence he’d felt since returning to his father’s house. My house now, he reminded himself.

  He’d slept poorly the night before, thinking of Keisha. He was sick with the feeling that she would end this fledgling romance for good. But all he could do was abide by her wishes and follow through on his promises. He’d gotten up early to be on the first flight to JFK, which he’d bought online the night before for an exorbitant sum. His first stop had been Feldstein’s Florals for a bouquet of pink tulips, his mother’s favorite, then on to the townhouse in Gramercy Park that was even more a part of him than the house in Maryland. He stood outside, looking up at the arched window over the second-floor landing. He used to love to sit at that window and watch snow falling in the winter months.

  He shook himself, climbing the stoop to ring the bell. The heavy wood door swung open, and there was Anne, her white hair in a messy bun, wearing her usual paint-splattered coveralls. She blinked up at him in surprise.

  “Ben?”

  “Hi Annie. Can I come in?”

  She stepped aside, and he felt the familiar, queasy feeling he sometimes got when they were alone together. He knew they loved each other in their own ways, but he also knew—had always known—that there was a tiny part of her that resented him. Maybe it was envy; maybe he’d been inconvenient. But he knew, almost as much as he was certain she still felt that way, that she was ashamed of these feelings.

  “Where’s Mom?”

  “Finishing up her physical therapy. They’ll be out in a minute or two.”

  They stared at each other for a long moment before she pulled him into a hug with a laugh.

  “You goddamned ingrate.”

  “Strange words to say to the guy you’re hugging.”

  Anne pulled back and studied him. “Yeah, well. I contain multitudes. How’s Annapolis? You’ve got to be bored since you quit your job to move into that house.” She shivered. “That place always gave me the spooks.”

  “Yeah, I get that. And I didn’t quit. I retired early.”

  Anne rolled her eyes. “Oh, spare me. Journalists don’t retire. They write the occasional long-winded opinion piece, that everyone pretends to read, and get to be photographed by Annie Leibowitz for Vanity Fair.”

  “I think I’d look great in Vanity Fair.”

  “Of course you do.” She scrutinized him for a long moment. “You’re up to something. You’ve got that look about you. I always know. Your dad used to look that way before he’d do something outrageous like join the army or fornicate with a lesbian.”

  “Gah, Anne!”

  “Don’t be a prude, Benny.”

  He sighed. “I am up to something, but I’d rather just tell you both at the same time, if that’s all right.”

  “You met someone.”

  “Are you a wizard? I did, but it’s complicated.”

  “Hmph, complicated. When do we meet her?”

  “You two never liked Fiona or any other woman I’ve dated. Why would I subject another woman to your collective disapproval?”

  “That’s unfair, Ben. And I didn’t not like Fiona. I just always found her a bit…cold.”

  “Mmmhmm.”

  “And we haven’t disliked every woman you’ve brought home.”

  “Well, truthfully, Annie, I don’t know if you’ll meet thi
s new lady because I’m not entirely sure she’ll have me.”

  “Ridiculous. What’s not to love?”

  “We come from…very different worlds.”

  “Oh please, not that old excuse. Just look at Will and Lizzie Darcy. Or Georgiana and Ari! You couldn’t find two people more in love, and their worlds were so dissimilar they might as well have been from different universes.”

  “That’s part of what I wanted to talk to you both about.” He put an arm around her shoulders. “Let’s go see if Mom’s almost done.”

  His mother was, as he’d expected, overjoyed to see him. She embraced him, and he tried not to notice how fragile she felt or the cane in her hand.

  “You look terrible,” she announced. “You’re not eating enough.”

  “Ma—”

  “Oh, leave him be, Ducks. He’s old enough to take care of himself,” Anne said. “Besides, he’s not starving. He’s lovesick.”

  “Oh, no.” Charlotte groaned. “What did you do?”

  “It’s nice to see you too, Ma. And as far as what I did…I took her to Pemberley.”

  Charlotte and Anne exchanged a wary look before Charlotte looked back at her son and said, “But why?”

  “I’ve decided to write a book,” he told them, watching their expressions. “About Dad. About the family.”

  His mother, her papery skin already a stark ivory from the months spent inside recuperating from a broken hip, paled.

  “Benny,” Anne started.

  “Ben, dear…” his mother said at the same time. He cut them both off.

  “I know about your husband, Mother.”

  To his surprise, his mother laughed. “Oh. That.”

  “Ugh.” Anne’s face curled up in distaste, but his mother had a definite twinkle in her eye.

  “I’ll never forget Charles Bingley shredding his hide with a belt. It was a glorious sight.”

  “Okay, one of you, start talking.”

  Charlotte put a hand on Anne’s arm. “Would you make some tea, Annie?”