The Colonel

by Beau North

  “You look terrible,” she said, looking over his shoulder. He grinned, which hurt his bruised face.

  “A misunderstanding.”

  She rolled her eyes.

  “Do you remember this?” he asked. Betty Hutton was singing “I Wish I Didn’t Love You So” as couples twirled and swayed on the dance floor. Her mouth twisted up in that quirky smile he once loved so much. Don’t be an ass. You still love it.

  “Poor Mr. and Mrs. Bradshaw,” Elizabeth said with a little laugh. “I don’t think they ever believed that I was the groom’s second cousin.”

  “Of course you probably could have worked up more believable aliases than Maury and Ludmilla Lipschitz.”

  She laughed, really laughed then. A wild feeling rose in his breast, some ruthless combination of half-cocked sentiment and unsinkable hope. “I’d forgotten all about that.”

  His voice was a low caress, full of longing and regret. “I haven’t forgotten a single minute of it.”

  She looked away quickly, eyes stricken.

  “I wrote to you, you know,” he blurted, trying to fill the silence. There was still so much unsaid and unaccounted for. “Stacks and stacks of letters, each one more pitiful than the last. I bled on every page.”

  She took a moment to compose herself. “Did it help?”

  He drew her closer, wishing he could bury his face in her hair or rest his burning face against hers. But that wasn’t his move to make. It was hers, and hers alone.

  “Maybe it did. I thought it did. Now I’m not so sure, Slim.”

  They danced the rest of the song in silence.

  Damn it. This is all wrong. Richard scanned the crowd, looking for that familiar sweep of glossy curls. Elizabeth was nowhere to be found. There! Sneaking into a side entrance, fingers clutching the filmy fabric of her skirt. He took a steadying breath. There were things that needed to be said, lines that needed to be drawn. Things he should have said when they were on the dance floor, but how could he think about boundaries and forgiveness when she was in his arms? All those memories had come flooding back, a rogue wave of love and regret, and all he’d wanted was to drown in it.

  She disappeared into the house, closing the door behind her. He made every effort to appear relaxed, leaning against a column while he watched Bingley dancing with his ladylove. Truthfully, he was taught as a drawn bowstring. Some feeling, a sort of anxiety, gripped his shoulders. It felt as though a huge weight was hovering over his unsuspecting head, held suspended by the thinnest of chains. He made a show of finishing his drink before sidling up to the same door, letting himself inside the house.

  The long hall was brightly lit. A table positioned near the door bore a sign that read “Powder Room at the end of the hall.”

  He hesitated at the bottom of the elegantly curved staircase, debating whether to go up to the room where Darcy was staying. Were they there, together? Did he really want to know? He put a foot on the bottom step.

  “What the hell are you doing?” he muttered to himself and withdrew, turning to go back out the way he’d come.

  Something collided into him, a warm, familiar weight, soft as silk and scented with rose and amber.

  “Whoa, easy there!” He took in her face, her tear-bright eyes, and knew that something was wrong.

  “What is it? What’s going on?”

  He looked over her shoulder to see Darcy coming out of the study, frantically buttoning his trousers. A moment later, Caroline appeared in the half-open door behind him, barely covering herself. She saw him and grinned. I do believe that cat has eaten a canary.

  “Are you all right?” he asked as Darcy approached, calling for her to wait. Elizabeth moved out of his touch, further into Richard’s arms.

  “Can you get me out of here?” she asked. Her voice was so small, so shattered. His blood thundered in his veins. What had this woman every done to be cursed with the Fitzwilliam men and their poisonous love?

  “Can you still ride?” he asked.

  “God, yes.” Her fingers gripped his lapels in her urgency. He didn’t care. He’d sacrifice every garment he owned if she wanted to tear them all to ribbons.

  “Right now, I’d flap my arms and fly if I could.”

  “Elizabeth, don’t go!” Darcy called out from behind her. She closed her eyes, tears cutting gleaming tracks down her face.

  Richard turned her away from Darcy, toward the door. He looked over his shoulder. “Not now, D. Leave her alone.”

  To his credit, Darcy seemed to understand. He stayed rooted in place, watching as they slipped out into the night.

  “Funny, did you know there was a party happening tonight?” he asked when they stepped outside, part of the crowd but still somehow separate from it. She choked out a tearful laugh.

  “Get me out of here, or I’m afraid I’ll scream,” she said so that only he could hear it.

  “This way, duchess,” he said, leading her around the back of the house to the outbuilding that had at one point probably housed carriages and horse buggies but now served as Netherfield’s garage. His motorcycle was waiting just outside. Richard shrugged off his jacket and put it over her shoulders before rolling the bike out and kicking it into life. He held a hand out to her.

  “Your steed awaits, Slim.”

  She climbed on, her arms winding tight around him. He tried, oh he tried, not to enjoy the feeling so much. If you hear a thudding sound, it’s just me dropping my heart at your feet, Slim.

  He rode slowly, carefully down the long, hard-packed red clay of Netherfield’s drive and onto the smooth, new asphalt of Rural Route Two. Her hot tears soaked into his shirt as they rode under the full light of the spring moon, two pilgrims with half a heart, trying to remember what it felt like to be whole. They rode and rode into to the wild night, until he felt the pull that was bigger than both of them, luring them back. Not to Bingley’s party but to her home, to Longbourn, which he’d driven past earlier that day out of sheer curiosity and a simple desire to see the place that had made Elizabeth.

  He pulled in away from the house, glad to see that the windows were still unlit. He killed the ignition of the bike, silence filling the space between them. He felt her hesitate a moment before climbing off, taking his hand. He obeyed her silent command, sensing that words would be unwelcome and unnecessary.

  Elizabeth led him through the dewy spring grass and under the canopy of a weeping willow. Her hair had come unpinned and hung at her shoulders in a wild spill. She turned, resting her back against the tree, and grabbed handfuls of his shirt, pulling him to her in a heavy kiss.

  Heat slid through him like a knife, and he heard a low sound escape from somewhere deep inside of him, a sound of complete surrender. His hands took her face, fingers sinking into her untamed hair. Her mouth, sweet and tear-salty, opened easily under his, their tongues exchanging familiar greetings that set his skin on fire. Lust reared up, the half-sleeping leviathan that had just fully awoken for the first time in years. She whimpered softly, fisting the fabric of shirt. Whether it was habit or instinct, he couldn’t say, he fit his hips against hers, pressing her back against the rough bark of the willow. When she felt the hard ridge of his cock, she made a sound that was half-gasp, half-moan. He pulled back and looked at her through hooded eyes. The flushed cheeks, the glittering black eyes, the seductive swell of her breasts as they rose and fell with every hitching breath. He bit his lip, taking her face and tilting it up to him. His fingers traced the satin softness of her cheek, the lips swollen from their frantic kisses.

  “Who are you, you beautiful girl?” he whispered. She was Elizabeth…and not. Not his Elizabeth entirely, and that was just fine. Whoever she was, he wanted to know her, wanted to love and cherish her.

  Her trembling hands came up to her side, grasping at the zipper of her dress. What the hell are you doing? The thought wasn’t directed at her but at himself. It seemed he had a conscience after all.

  “No, Slim.” He grabbed her wrists, holding her arms immobile.
His ardor cooled, leaving him hollow.

  “Not like this. I want you, but I want you to want me for me, not to settle a score.”

  “What. Is. Wrong. With. All. Of. You?” she snarled, pulling her hands free, pounding her fists against him. He let her rant until her sobs won out. He sank down against the tree, pulling her into his lap, letting her cry herself dry.

  June 17, 1949

  Dear Richard,

  Oh my dear friend. I just read your last letter and wasted no time in sending my reply, though it may be some time before this reaches you.

  How shocking, how devastating, it must have been to stumble into your friend’s garden and find your Elizabeth there, quite grown up and in love with your cousin! My heart broke for you, though I will own that a small part of me wasn’t at all surprised—you know my feelings on this. I won’t say that it was deserved, no good person deserves such a terrible shock. I know what a good man you are—if you atone, you will be forgiven.

  You’re very kind to ask after Arthur again after such a terrible blow. We are settled now in our house in the village of Bray. I’ve enclosed our new address for your next letter. Pansy is doing very well, beginning to babble in that way that babies do. She loves the toy giraffe you sent her. Sadie is chuffed to bits by her baby sister.

  Bray is very peaceful, which is welcome after the noise of London. I thought I’d never get used to it! Arthur’s mum was very kind to let us stay with her for so long, but I am pleased we finally have a home of our own.

  I will be very anxious until I hear from you again. Please, please, write back and tell me how you fared in this unthinkable triangle you’ve found yourself in.

  Arthur sends his fondest regards, as do I.

  Your friend,

  Evie

  “Oh, Richard, do come in.”

  Jane stepped aside and let him pass. His eyes found hers first, as they always did. So she wanted to choose herself; he could live with that. It wouldn’t stop him from loving her. God himself couldn’t do that. She held his gaze for a moment before looking away. Seated next to her on the Bennet’s sofa was an older couple who seemed vaguely familiar to him.

  “Richard, you remember my aunt Maddie and uncle Ed Gardiner,” she said quietly.

  The floor dropped out from under him. He was falling, falling, and didn’t know when he’d ever hit the bottom.

  “Y―yes, I remember. How are you?”

  No one would meet his eye, save the Gardiners, who didn’t seem to think anything amiss. Jane slipped from the room, giving him a sympathetic look as she did.

  “Will you excuse us?” Elizabeth said to her relatives. She took Richard’s arm and pulled him onto the porch. She led him to the porch swing, still not meeting his eye.

  “What’s going on, Lizzie?” He thought he already knew, but he needed to hear her say it.

  “I’m leaving, Richard. I’m going to Charleston to live with my aunt and uncle.”

  “For god's sake, why?”

  “You know why. Because I need to wipe the slate. I need a new beginning.”

  “Slim, it’s Charleston.”

  “I know that. But it’s a place to start.”

  He nodded, unsurprised. He was afraid she might do something like this. “When?”

  “Tomorrow. First thing.”

  He rubbed his forehead. “You’re rushing this. Could we just…?”

  “No, we couldn’t.” Her tone was firm, her face set. “I’m afraid you don’t get a say in this.”

  “What about Will?”

  A shadow passed across her face, a look of mixed longing and pain. She swallowed. “He doesn’t get a say either.”

  He railed against her then, told her she was foolish, selfish, childish...every ish he could think of, he called her. She just stood there like a post, weathering it all as he paced and ranted and, finally, collapsed back onto the porch swing, exhausted and heartsore.

  “Are you finished?”

  “Quite.”

  She sighed and sat next to him. After all the misspent days with nothing but the memory of her, of longing for her—he couldn’t bear her nearness just then. Didn’t want to breathe her scent of orange blossoms, didn’t want to see how still she was, how graceful in repose.

  “You’ve been fine without me for three years. You’ll be fine no matter what.”

  He didn’t want to hear these words. Didn’t want to hear the tremble of tears in her voice.

  “And who knows? Maybe when we’re old and far away from here, I’ll turn a corner in some far-off place, and there you’ll be, and it’ll be like no time has passed. You’ll still be you, and I’ll still be me, and we’ll smile and say, ‘Hello, old friend. It’s been awhile.’”

  This was, to him, the cruelest thing she could have said. He hated her in that moment, hated himself for every night spent looking up into the emptiness of his room, wondering where she was and what she was doing. She was a ghost now, like all the others, only she couldn’t be exorcised. She was part of him now, branded into his flesh for the rest of his life. He would have cut himself, peeled back the skin, if he thought it would make a difference.

  Instead he got up and walked away, climbed onto his motorcycle—started it with more force than necessary—and drove away.

  14

  November 1949

  First Presbyterian Church

  Meryton

  Having delivered Georgiana to the church, Richard reached under the seat and pulled out his flask. With a shaking hand, he unscrewed the cap and took a drink. It was beginning to be a problem, but he didn’t know how else he was going to get through this day. God, he hated weddings.

  “Hello, Dick,” a voice said from outside the window. Richard sat up on his elbow, careful not to spill his flask.

  Richard smiled at his cousin. “Don’t you look the fancy gent.” His own suit was wrinkled and hung loosely on him. He had lost weight.

  “Well, you look like shit,” Darcy said, returning his smile. They both seemed to possess a sense of calm acceptance. They could never be anyone else but themselves when they were together.

  Richard took another pull from his flask and handed it to Darcy. “Care for a nip?”

  Darcy waved it away with a laugh. “It’s a little early for me, but thanks.”

  Richard climbed out of the car, stashing the flask under the seat. He brushed off his suit, knowing it would do little good.

  “Old Charles Beastly couldn’t have gotten married back in DC, I guess. I had to make this drive again.”

  Darcy snickered. “It’s what Jane wanted, and you know Charles will go along with anything she asks.”

  “Don’t pretend like you wouldn’t,” Richard said knowingly.

  Darcy averted his eyes. So maybe it would not always be exactly the same. “I’d hand her the keys to Pemberley right now if she asked for them.”

  Richard smiled and clapped his shoulder. “I’m glad to hear it.” He was surprised to find he meant it.

  December 1949

  Fitzwilliam Estate

  Annapolis

  It wasn’t until he was on his third scotch that Richard remembered the box in his bureau. It was his last night at the house in Annapolis. Tomorrow he would return to New York with Charlotte and Anne, and Fitzwilliam House would be shut once more. He hauled himself out of his chair by the fire, careful of his cigarette. For a moment, the room spun around him, and he forced himself to stare at the bureau until the world settled once more. He tottered over to it and yanked open the top drawer, tossing stacks of neatly folded undershirts aside until he found his object: a wooden cigar box, chipped and worn with age. He took it out and held it to his chest, closing his eyes.

  He stumbled back to his chair in front of the fire, just as the rain outside hit his windows with new strength. He smiled grimly to himself as he settled back in, his precious cargo unopened in his lap. He crushed his cigarette out in the heavy glass ashtray at his elbow, ashamed and, in a strange way, satisfied at how q
uickly it was filling up.

  He flipped open the box, sighing heavily at the sight of his treasures, his memories. There was James’s Purple Heart, a photograph of his parents before either he or James were born, his graduation ring, letters from Anne and Darcy, and even a letter from Georgiana, her handwriting a childish scrawl.

  All these things, he pushed aside until he found his object, there at the bottom: a photograph, almost untouched as if it had just been taken days ago.

  It didn’t have to be in color for him to know that the sky was a perfect blue, that her hair wasn’t black as it appeared in the photo but a deep auburn, or that she wore a yellow dress. Elizabeth Darcy was a woman on her way to New Orleans for her honeymoon. Elizabeth Bennet was there, perfectly preserved on the very edge between a girl and a woman, smiling down at something in her hand: a strip of pictures from a boardwalk photo booth. He’d taken the picture without her knowing, his very own stolen moment.

  He knew that he was a man chained to his past—by his ghosts, by his love for Elizabeth. The future eluded him, bewildered him. Richard gingerly set the box aside, keeping the photo. He spent several long minutes memorizing every detail, from the curve of her smile to the way the strap of her sandal had slipped from her ankle. At last, he stood, still unsteady as he approached the fireplace. He leaned on the mantle, the heat from the fire and the booze in his belly making him feel ill. He looked down once more at the picture in his hand, wondering whether he could really consign her to the fire and it wouldn’t be him that burned instead.

  It wasn’t about the photo—or even Elizabeth herself. It was a symbol of his past and everything he’d lost—his family, his purpose. You’ve got to do something. He wondered if this was just a lie he liked to tell himself. It can’t go on like this. You can’t go on like this.

  He stood there for a long time before opening his fingers, letting the paper float down, into the flames. It caught at once; her image distorted, bubbling.