The Colonel

by Beau North

  Richard couldn’t stop himself from grinning down at her. “You’re a swell girl, Charlotte. Annie’s lucky to have you.”

  She rolled her eyes and laughed. “I think you do need food. It’ll soak up some of that booze that’s gone right to your head. Come on. Delmonico’s beckons.”

  16

  December 31, 1950

  Gramercy Park

  New York City

  Abigail perched by the open window and lit a cigarette. The air outside was cold and damp, but it was far too warm in the room after their lovemaking. He supposed that was the wrong word for what they did because there was very little love involved. It felt like something they did to fill the empty silences between them, since they’d long ago exhausted all topics of conversation. Not that they didn’t enjoy filling the silence. Hell, he was practically addicted to it.

  His eyes drank in the curve of her neck, the strap of her filmy slip. Her face in profile so eerily similar to that other much beloved face that sometimes, when the similarities caught him unawares, the surprise of it was a hand-making a fist around his heart. Unlike that unspoken of other, being near Abigail was akin to a fever or some strange madness. Doctor Jekyll has lost his mind, and his trousers. Even now, as he lay naked and spent, his need to have her turned his thoughts to fire. Her sighs were air to him, her kisses cool water that could never fully quench.

  She was such soft pain, such sharp pleasure.

  Her party dress hung on the back of the closet door, adding a strange formality to the informal scene. Ribbons of smoke from her cigarette wreathed her head, making her an ethereal icon sitting on a stack of magazines as outside the snow began to fall.

  “Why are you with me, Abbie?”

  She looked as startled by the question as he felt in asking it. He couldn’t say why he wanted to know, he just did.

  “I’m not really sure,” she said at last, with more seriousness than he’d ever heard from her. “We’re from the same circles. You’re gorgeous, and you’re good for a laugh. You’re terrific in bed, but sometimes you can be a real drag.”

  “So you don’t love me?”

  She laughed and took another pull from her cigarette before answering him.

  “Goodness, Richard. Why would you spoil a good romance by bringing love into it?”

  Richard checked his suit in the mirror again. He made sure his hair was in place, straightening his cuffs one more time.

  “You look fine,” Abigail said from the bar cart by the window. “Doesn’t he, Joe?”

  Joe looked up from his reading. His huge fingers made the book look comically small in his hands.

  “Very sharp,” Joe agreed blandly before going back to his reading. Abigail set a glass of vodka at the table next to her bodyguard's seat, a twist of lemon floating on the surface. She handed one to Richard as well.

  “Honestly, you’d think this was your first time ever meeting your own family the way you’re carrying on right now.”

  Richard knew he couldn’t explain the reason behind his anticipation. He couldn’t explain Elizabeth to Abigail, or his strange excitement in the news that she was now in the family way. It was not unexpected; he knew that babies were part of the inevitable progression of marriage. For all he’d expected the news to bring him low, he’d been strangely buoyant since Charlotte had told him. “This might be my chance,” he thought, “to shake this madness off forever.”

  “I just want them to like you,” he said, putting his arm around Abigail’s waist.

  She laughed and shook her head. “Good luck, I say.”

  Charlotte appeared in the doorway, looking festive in her party dress. Her blonde hair was freshly cut and styled, giving her a look of elegance that had taken them all by surprise. Her mouth turned down briefly at Abigail before she plastered on a nervous smile.

  “Are you ready? Our guests are arriving.”

  He downed his drink, lemon and all.

  “Come on, handsome,” Abigail said, taking his hand and leading him out the door, following close on Charlotte’s heels. “See ya later, Joe,” she called over her shoulder as Richard shut the door to the study behind them.

  “He doesn't want to join us?” Richard asked, trying to hide his nerves. Abigail rolled her eyes. “The family crowd isn’t really Joe’s scene. I think he’d prefer the boys on the docks.”

  Richard saw Charlotte’s back stiffen. He knew that she’d taken a liking to Abigail’s bodyguard and had succeeded in pulling him into conversation more than once. Charlotte said that she found him to be an intelligent, thoughtful man. She’d also tersely remarked that he must be doing some sort of penance or Abigail Huntington-Whitney’s father must pay very well, a comment that had made Richard laugh.

  Neither did he miss the way Abigail’s eyes lit up at having angered Charlotte, the fleeting, vicious smile, but couldn’t remark on it as they were in the wide, gracious parlor where the newcomers were gladly accepting drinks. Richard almost didn’t recognize Will, relaxed and laughing at something Charles Bingley just said. Anne was chatting, introducing her cop friend, Kelly, to Jane Bingley. Richard avoided the copper-top policeman, who seemed to be at their house more frequently than Richard was entirely comfortable with. Jane was looking as beautiful as ever, if a little tired. Georgiana was hugging Charlotte, looking like a grown woman in a gown that hugged her tall figure.

  “Richard!” she exclaimed when she saw him.

  “Is that you, Georgie?”

  She threw her arms around him.

  “Woah there, kid, I still need to breathe sometimes.”

  “You look terrible,” she whispered. “Are you okay?”

  Why do people keep saying that? He was feeling better than he’d felt in years.

  “I’m limping along, kid. Don’t worry about me.”

  Georgiana released him, dashing her fingertips across her cheeks. Was she crying? He couldn’t fathom why.

  And then, there she was.

  By god, this was a mistake. Isn’t she supposed to look terrible? Tired? Swollen? Green around the gills?

  Elizabeth didn’t look terrible. She was as radiant as the sun. He noticed that her lips were painted red. He didn’t think he’d ever seen her wearing lipstick before. He wasn’t sure he liked it.

  A small hand gripped his arm above the elbow. He looked down to see Abigail had also noticed Elizabeth’s entrance. Elizabeth, who could have been her sister.

  “You bastard,” she swore under her breath, so that only he heard it.

  “Grow up, Abbie,” he muttered in response.

  “Richie!” Darcy took his hand with both of his. “You look well.”

  Richard laughed. “And you’re a shitty liar.” He gazed down at Elizabeth, who met his eyes with a smile that was warm and polite but little else.

  “Hiya, Slim.” He’d taken to calling her Mrs. Darcy in his head, a constant reminder of the path she’d chosen. But standing there only inches apart, he couldn’t keep the appellation trapped in his throat. It flew from him like an arrow loosed from a bow. She tensed, her smile falling a fraction of an inch. Her eyes flitted up to study her husband’s profile before looking back up at him.

  “Hello, Richard.”

  “This”―he put his arm around Abigail’s waist, drawing her forward. He had to wipe that look off her face. He had to show her that he was all right, that he’d moved on. “This is Abbie. Abigail Huntington-Whitney, meet my cousin William Darcy and his bride, Elizabeth.”

  The two women took each other in, a look of mutual recognition crossing their silent faces. It was Abigail who spoke first.

  “Oh! You’re the singer.”

  Elizabeth’s smile broadened. Only those who knew her well knew this was her reaction to insult. To find amusement in it.

  “Why yes, I sing on occasion.”

  Abigail sniffed. She couldn’t have known that Elizabeth had borne the brunt of snobbery far worse from her own husband, had stood up to a raving madman, and performed for thousands
of people. She couldn’t be intimidated by the likes of some Park Avenue princess.

  And then it happened. Darcy and Elizabeth exchanged a look. A moment so brief, a wordless second that shifted his entire world. That glance was knowing, and…embarrassed. His life had been a series of disappointments and regrets, with moments of beauty running between like the veins of color in good marble, but that brief glance was perhaps the most mortifying moment he’d ever experienced. He understood everything said in that silent conversation.

  That he hadn’t moved on.

  That he couldn’t replace what he’d lost with a facsimile.

  Worse, they’d instantly realized something he had never admitted, even to himself. That he didn’t seem to want to move on. That the misery made him feel that much more alive.

  “N―nice to meet you,” Darcy said. His hand clapped Richard’s shoulder. It seemed to radiate cold through the layers of his suit jacket, shirt, and undershirt, through the skin and muscle, and into the blood, turning it to ice. Darcy turned and looked at his wife. “Will you ladies excuse us? Richard, I need a word.”

  Richard allowed himself to be led, his feet moving numbly. Nothing Darcy was going to say to him was going to hurt worse than that brief glance had.

  As it happened, Darcy didn’t plan to say anything. Instead, he drove a fist into Richard’s gut. Pain exploded through him, making him curl up on himself, fighting to get air into his lungs again.

  “What…the…fuck?”

  “You had that coming,” Darcy said coldly, shaking his fist. “What is wrong with you?”

  Richard propped his hands above his knees. There was a dull throbbing just above his navel, but he’d managed to catch his breath finally.

  “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “Don’t make me punch you again. It is too goddamned tempting right now. How old is that girl?”

  “Twenty, I think.”

  “You think? How long did you scour the city looking for someone who was the spitting image of my wife?”

  “No time at all. She just sort of fell into my lap.”

  “Richard—” The word was more a warning than anything else.

  “Relax. She’s twenty-one. I remembered when I was trying to stand up just now.”

  “I’m sorry I punched you,” Darcy said. “And that’s still too young for you.”

  He did seem repentant, but Richard knew it wouldn’t take much to set his cousin off again. He decided not to test it.

  “Look, D… Would you believe me if I told you I was an idiot?”

  “It’s the only thing you’ve said that makes any sense.”

  “Will you take my apology for springing all this on you, if nothing else?”

  Darcy sighed. “I’m not sure I’m the one you should apologize to. I think Abigail Huntington-Whitney just realized you’re an idiot, too.”

  “Yeah. She’s smarter than I gave her credit.” Richard walked gingerly to the bar cart and poured himself a drink.

  “You should go back to your wife, D. I’m not sure you’re quite finished punching me yet.”

  Darcy hesitated. “Richie… It’s your party. Come back out with me. Peace?” He offered his hand. Richard looked at it before turning around, pouring himself another drink.

  “I’ll be out in a minute.”

  But it would be nearly an hour before he rejoined the party, so soused, he couldn’t walk straight. He was dimly aware Darcy and Joe getting him to his room, and a woman yelling at him, but he didn’t know if it was Abigail or Elizabeth. All he could see was the halo of her upswept hair. He reached out for her, not caring which woman it was. Don’t leave me alone, he’d wanted to say but couldn’t make the words. I’m always alone.

  He drifted, and when he opened his eyes again, the woman had disappeared. At some point, he rolled onto his side, expelling everything in his stomach, which wasn’t much. Gentle hands cleaned his face with a cool cloth, smoothing his hair back from his brow. The last thing he heard before sinking into a black sleep was his family in the next room, counting down to the new year. To his liquor-soaked mind, their voices sounded like angels.

  “Welcome back to the land of the living.”

  Richard groaned, feeling the aching throb of his head before he even opened his eyes. It took a moment to come to himself and remember where he was and how he’d gotten to bed the night before. He opened his eyes a crack to see Anne sitting in the chair across from him, sketching. She looked up at him and sighed. The sound exploded like rockets in his head.

  “Hnnn.”

  She stood and left the room, coming back a minute later with a tray. She put it down and helped him to sit up.

  “Richie...didn’t I tell you this was a bad idea?” Anne asked as she handed him a cup of coffee and two aspirin.

  Richard laughed, wincing at his pounding head. It wasn’t a happy sound.

  “I know, Annie,” he said. “I did something stupid.”

  ”You’re going to have to be more specific.”

  He sighed, raking a hand through this hair. Everything hurt. Even brushing his hand across the stubble on his chin set off detonations of pain.

  ”I thought seeing her…like that…it would cure me of it forever…I could let go of this what if I’ve been holding on to for so long.”

  Anne shook her head. “I really don’t think it works that way.”

  Richard groaned, hanging his head. “The joke is always on me, Annie. Always. I think she knew what I was hoping for, too. I could see it all over her face, like she was a little bit sorry she let me down.”

  Anne rubbed his back. “Did Will notice?"

  “Enough to put a fist in my gut.” Richard winced as he tasted the seltzer and then drank it hastily, hoping it would settle his roiling stomach.

  “When did that happen?” Anne was aghast.

  “Right after I introduced Abigail. I was so proud of myself. Look how I’ve moved on, new girl and everything, I thought. D just kind of looked at Abbie and then looked at Lizzie, and they had this look and I knew. I’m not over it. Any of it.”

  “I can’t believe it didn’t occur to you sooner,” Anne said. “I always thought…well, I just assumed you had a type now.”

  “If only it were that easy.” He shrugged. “I saw the look she and Will gave each other. Like they were embarrassed for me. It was the lowest feeling.”

  Anne made a soft cluck of sympathy. “I’m sure they didn’t mean…”

  “No, I know. Damn them both. They’re too good to hurt me on purpose. Lizzie tried to play along and talk to Abbie, but it was done, and I knew it.”

  “Poor Abbie.” Anne’s voice didn’t put much sympathy behind her words. Richard waved her off.

  “I’m not her only playmate. I was too damn old for her anyway.”

  Anne laughed. “I thought so too but I didn’t want to say anything. You’ve seemed to be doing so well. I didn’t want to jinx it.”

  Once again, he put his head in his hands, silently praying it would stop pounding soon.

  “God, I’m an idiot,” he said finally. Anne put an arm around him, pulling him to her. He rested his head on her shoulder, allowing himself to be comforted.

  “Don’t worry. Your secret’s safe with me, Richie.”

  17

  January 9, 1951

  Dear Slim,

  It’s still so strange to call you that. It seems like the girl I knew is gone while a stranger with her face smiles in all those family photos.

  I was just wasting time, trying to decide if I should try to catch the next train home or if I wanted another drink or another girl or both. I wondered why I keep doing these things to myself, and then I said it’s the only time I’m not thinking of you. But we both know that’s a lie, don’t we? I was about to leave when I saw a guy here writing a letter so I asked him if I could have some paper, and now I find myself writing to you surrounded by drunks. I can’t lie to you―my head is killing me, so I will order another drink.

&n
bsp; Now that I’m properly lubricated, I should continue. Thank you for your last letter. You are still too kind to me. That, I believe, is part of the problem. You make loving you so damned effortless. I wish you had cruelty in you―I think it’s the only thing that will kill this. Abigail was a cruel, amusing little thing, but I never loved her. Everyone tells me to let it go, did you know that? Will, Anne…hell, even Georgie has suggested it with her usual ruthless tact. All these melodies part of the same stubborn lament. I nod and say, “Yes of course. It’s the right thing to do,” but we all know that I’m not even going to try. I don’t want to try. I want to love you until it kills us both. I need that thing―that undefinable thing in you that helps me to forget the things that need forgetting. What is the word for it, Slim? I know how crazy I sound, how selfish and mean. Maybe the world is nicer than I am today.

  I can’t believe we have found ourselves here. I can’t believe how callously time marches on. Maybe everyone is right. In fact, I know they are. I need you to tell me what to do. What do I do, Slim?

  Richard

  (letter unsent)

  January 15, 1951

  Dear Will,

  Greetings, salutations, etcetera. Thank you for dragging your family complete up to the city for the party. It was, as always, good to see you, but even better to see you so happy. You can be pretty fun to be around when you’re not glowering and putting everyone off of their feed.

  You must think I’m very foolish. No need to deny it―I saw the look that passed between you and your excellent wife. Did you know that the two of you, taken separately, are about as easy to read as Greek—but when you’re together, you’re comically transparent.

  So yes, I was a foolish man. Nothing to be done for it now. If I can be grateful about anything, it’s that I never fancied myself to be in love. I was thrill seeking, endangering life and limb, hell, my very sanity (or what’s left of it) but never in love. You may be glad to hear that that is all over with now. In any case, I don’t want either of you to worry about what kind of trouble I’ll be getting myself into next because well, damn it, there’s no easy way to say this, but I am back in the army. Old man Tilney himself pulled some strings and brought me back in, with a promotion.