The Colonel

by Beau North

  When I took two bullets in Brest, I was a captain. The old bastard got me kicked out as a major, and now I’m going back in a lieutenant colonel. I could be one of the youngest men to make colonel, provided Uncle Sam doesn’t get fed up with my antics before then. I’ll have a bigger command now, which is good but troubling too. I hope that I’m up to the task. I think that there is more to this little skirmish than they’re letting on.

  I’m to leave at the end of the month. I was hoping it wouldn’t be an imposition to come spend my last week there at Pemberley. We could settle my affairs (just in case) and I could say my (temporary) goodbyes to you all.

  Confer with Mrs. Darcy and ring me up when you know.

  Your faithful friend,

  Richard

  Darcy looked up from the letter at the two women dearest to him. Georgiana had her nose buried in a book while Elizabeth sat buttering her toast. She wore a bemused little half-smile, as if remembering a joke she hadn’t heard in years. She was beginning to show, getting more beautiful every day. She seemed to glow from within all the time these days, even when she was wretchedly sick or weeping or falling asleep every few minutes. His heart beat almost painfully when he thought about the child she carried, their life to come.

  He honestly had no idea how she would take this news.

  “So,” he began, watching Elizabeth’s face. “I have a letter from Richard here.”

  Her only acknowledgment was a tiny lift of her eyebrows. “Any messages from Charlotte?”

  “Ah, no. So I’m assuming things must be well.”

  Georgiana put her book down and picked up her coffee, making a face. “Wasn’t his girlfriend so awful?”

  Elizabeth’s lips twisted in a wry smile. “Actually, I rather liked her, though probably for all the wrong reasons. She was vastly entertaining.”

  Darcy smiled. “She was rather appalling. I think she might have even been ruder than I am.”

  “Impossible,” Elizabeth teased. “Still, I shouldn’t laugh at her. If she makes your cousin happy…”

  She never said his name, Darcy noticed. It was always your cousin. He wondered if she was even aware of it.

  “Ah, well. That’s part of why he writes. It seems that Miss Huntington-Whitney is out of the picture now.”

  “Thank goodness,” Georgiana said with a sigh. “Poor Richard.”

  If any of this talk bothered Elizabeth, she didn’t let it show.

  Darcy turned to his sister and asked if she would excuse them for a minute. She shrugged and gathered her things before breezing out the room. Darcy reached over and took his wife’s hand.

  “Elizabeth, do you mind if Richard comes to stay for a bit?”

  “Why on earth would I mind? As long as he’s not bringing that little goblin with him. Not that I mind but I think she would probably upset Georgie.”

  “I think you know what I mean when I ask, and it has nothing to do with Georgiana.”

  “Oh good lord, not that again. I think we’d better get used to our new family situation sooner rather than later. We’re all adults, aren’t we?”

  “That point is debatable. There’s…something else.”

  “You’re worried! Is everything all right?”

  “Richard has…well, damn if he’s not in the army again. That’s why he wants to come for visit. He’ll be headed out at the end of the month.”

  She looked down at her plate, a small crease appearing between her eyebrows.

  “I see. Headed out where?”

  “I think you know.”

  She cleared her throat, a habit she was picking up from him. “Are you going to tell Georgie or should I?”

  “Don’t you want to tell her together?”

  “One of us ought to inform Mrs. R, don’t you think? Yes, I think I will. You tell Georgie. I’m sure she’ll have all kinds of questions.” She stood suddenly, smoothing the fabric of her dress with the palms of her hands.

  “Elizabeth—”

  “I’m fine, William.”

  But he wondered. Wondered at the tight set of her shoulders as she walked out of the room, the overly precise and careful way she closed the door behind her.

  January 31, 1951

  Pemberley Manor

  Lambton

  Dinner that evening was a solemn affair. Sheets of rain slid down the lead glass windows, obscuring the view. It made the room feel uncomfortably narrow. Richard felt as if the walls were constricting around him as he watched Elizabeth standing at the window, cradling the small swell of her belly. She was a silent sentinel against the driving rain. In an unusual reversal of roles, it was Darcy who tried keeping conversation flowing at the table. It was a losing battle, with Elizabeth maintaining her post and Georgiana silent but for the occasional sniffle.

  “How is Mrs. Ward?” Darcy asked. Richard looked at his cousin, who was trying so hard, and forced a smile.

  “Eve’s good. Another little one on the way as we speak.”

  “She couldn’t talk you out of this madness either, I take it,” Elizabeth said without turning around. Richard looked down at his plate and swallowed, heart hammering in his chest. There were no answers to be found on his plate, only turkey and mashed potatoes, roasted vegetables still steaming from the oven―all his favorite foods, a proper last supper. He couldn’t eat a thing.

  He picked up his fork and speared a slice of turkey. “Evie knew better than to try.”

  Darcy gave him a pleading look. Richard ignored it, choosing instead to shovel food into his mouth to spare him the temptation of saying anything else. Elizabeth turned and glared at him. “You’re a damn fool.”

  “Oh, Lizzie, don’t.” It was Georgiana who spoke, her voice soft with tears.

  “Elizabeth—” Will started.

  “No, please,” Richard said, putting his fork down. “Let her speak.”

  “I apologize, Georgie,” Elizabeth said, ignoring him. “I suppose I’m not very hungry after all. Please excuse me.”

  She walked, straight-backed and stiff-limbed, out of the room, stopping once to give him a look he didn’t dare try to decipher.

  Darcy looked at him and shook his head. “Go. Talk to her. Let her yell at you and call you a fool. God knows you’ve earned that much.”

  Richard rose, feeling numb. Darcy followed, stopping at the door long enough to grab his arm and issue a low warning.

  “Just remember,” he said. “Remember, she’s my wife.”

  As though I could ever forget. Richard nodded and left, following his heart.

  He caught up with her just outside the greenhouse, her short, clipped stride no match for his long legs.

  “Slim, wait.” She stopped, her back to him. A few curls had come loose from the high chignon she wore, they kissed the bare skin of her neck just above the cardinal-red fabric of her blouse. Richard curled his fingers into fists to keep himself from reaching out and touching them.

  She whirled on him, eyes blazing.

  “What do you want me to say, Richard? That I don’t want to be responsible for you getting yourself killed? Fine. Now I’ve said it.”

  He blinked, taken aback.

  “Is that what you think? That I joined a war to get myself killed because…what? Because I can’t have you?”

  She crossed her arms over her breasts, hugging herself. “You haven’t been especially discrete.”

  “You really think the worst of me, don’t you?”

  She looked away, dashing a lone tear from her cheek.

  Richard was angry. Completely, irrationally angry. The truth was, he was going because he needed to do something better, something more with himself. He needed to be able to look at himself in the mirror without hating what he saw. Maybe it was misguided, but he was too incensed to admit it now. He strode over to her, taking her face in his hands.

  “If that’s what you want to hear. You were so unforgettable that I’d rather be in the ground than live another day without you. God knows, I’d do it myself if I
wasn’t such a goddamned coward.”

  He’d spoken in anger, wanting to wound her, but, instead of hurtful lies, it was the most secret truth of his heart that flew from his lips. And the truth, once loosed, could never be unheard.

  “The truth”―his voice caught, breaking just a little―“the truth is that it was loving you that well and truly broke me. I killed a piece of myself the day I left you, and every time I see you, I kill just a little bit more. You say you’re worried about my life, but I’ve been dying by slow degrees for years now.”

  She pulled herself out of his grasp, hand flying out and cracking like a whip against his cheek. A stinging warmth flooded the spot.

  “Was your heart the first thing to go?” It was more an accusation than a question. Without waiting for an answer, she turned and strode off, back toward the house.

  “No,” he said to her retreating back, rubbing absently at his tingling cheek. “It’ll be the last.”

  If it were any other night, the thunderstorm would have had her out like a light. But try as she might, Elizabeth couldn’t find sleep. The changes in her body, when she stopped to observe them, unsettled her. She was not very far along yet, but she still found herself having to adjust the way she walked, the way she moved, even the way she rested. It was an alien feeling that she feared would only get worse as the changes became more pronounced.

  That night Will had come to bed with bourbon on his breath. She had no doubt that he and Richard has stayed up toasting each other like a couple of self-congratulatory dunderheads.

  She couldn’t, didn’t dare, give name to the feeling that had been creeping through her ever since her husband had read Richard’s last letter at the breakfast table. She’d found herself out of sorts and ill-tempered, pacing around rooms like a caged animal. She felt as if there was some other form just under her skin, waiting to burst forth at any moment. She’d read The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde years ago and found herself sympathizing with the doctor, whose secret-self had become fully realized and gone beyond all control. On occasion, she indulged herself in what it might be like to surrender herself to her animal nature, to scratch and tear at what hurt her. To cling to what was hers.

  Their argument in the garden had only made things worse. His words had shaken her more than she wanted to admit, and she wanted nothing more than to build a wall between herself and those truths. She wanted―she needed―not to know what she now knew. That he still loved her. That his love was killing him. It was something she understood. The love she’d carried for him had nearly done her in all those years ago. It had ground her down, broken and reshaped her.

  The clock on her nightstand read two o’clock. She looked over at her William, snoring softly beside her. She thought of waking him and then reconsidered. Instead, she threw back the covers and climbed out of bed, slipping out the door as quietly as she could.

  Richard paced the length of his room, brimming with nervous energy. He hadn’t imbibed as much as Darcy after dinner. For some reason, he’d known that his night was not quite over.

  You’re a fool. Go throw yourself off the roof, and do the world a favor.

  There. He heard it. Movement in the corridor, just on the other side of his door. There was enough light from the lamp at his bedside that he could see a pair of small feet through the bottom of his bedroom door.

  The wallop of his heart was so strong he had to reach out and steady himself against the wall. Run to the door, throw it open, pull her inside. He touched the knob.

  “Slim? Is that you?”

  No one has to know.

  February 3, 1951

  My dear girl,

  I’ve been thinking about what you said that night, the way you told me to stay alive, no matter what. It’s a scene I’ve replayed in my mind non-stop since leaving that next day. I wish I could describe what it felt like to me, as though I’d finally grasped something I’d been reaching for my whole life.

  I know we had our chance. I know this is all we get, but it’s what will bring me home again. And again. And again. I’m tired, Slim. So very tired. I’ve been tired my whole life. A sad sack trudging through a dreary world, and then there you were, blazing like a bonfire. You brought color and light into the world and set me loose in it. Like a child learning how to walk, I stumbled, but I’m right again now.

  I very well may die over there, but I won’t go easy or willingly. I’ll fight as hard as I can because I love you. Because you’re here. We’re separated enough as it is, destined to stand on opposite shores, but we can shout across the divide from time to time. Death isn’t going to be the thing that takes me away from you. Not yet. I want to see your children grow up. I want to see you and Will grow your family. I want to see Georgie get married someday. I want to write you more of these letters that I’ll never send. I want to live, Slim. I’ll always be fighting my way back to the place where you are.

  I am, always, most stubbornly yours,

  Richard

  * * *

  (letter unsent)

  18

  September 14, 1951

  Dear Will,

  Thank you for the picture of the newest member of your family. You have truly brightened this dim world with your happy news. Please congratulate Mrs. Darcy for me. As far as young Maggie’s perfection, I’ll have to judge for myself when I meet her in person, but if she is anything like her excellent parents, then I’m sure she will have a very charmed life. Whatever you might have expected, I couldn’t be more pleased for you both. I am smiling ear to ear even as I write this. I think I see you in that frank expression. It pleases me to think there are more than one of you out there in the world.

  Take care, and hold them tight.

  All my best,

  Richard

  “I can’t believe it,” Darcy said, putting the letter aside with a smile. It had taken weeks for the news to reach Richard and more for his reply to arrive. June had come and gone in a haze of feedings, sleepless nights, diaper changes. He lay on his side next to Elizabeth, watching her nurse their daughter.

  “They won’t stay this big forever,” Elizabeth said with a tired half-grin.

  “Not that. I just meant…I can’t believe we’re allowed to be this happy.” His fingers touched the silky fluff that was Maggie’s cap of wispy hair. Elizabeth smiled at this tender gesture. Maggie had grown so fast in the time since Elizabeth had given birth that she found herself wishing she could freeze time, keep their daughter this age just a little while longer.

  “God willing, it’ll only get better.” Elizabeth smiled down at her daughter.

  “You’ve given me everything,” Darcy said, sounding solemn even for him. “Every day you give me everything. Never in a million years will I begin to deserve you.”

  “Maggie, your father is letting his lack of sleep scramble his brains,” Elizabeth cooed at her daughter, who looked up at her with large, wondering eyes. “How about tonight you let him sleep so he starts making sense again?” Maggie continued to nurse, but her expression was so much like her father, a concentrated stare of serious consideration, that Elizabeth nearly laughed.

  A light snore from her side told her that Darcy had fallen asleep. She smiled, caressing the infant’s face with the fingertips of her free hand. A talkative woman by nature, Elizabeth occasionally found herself dumbstruck by the profound joy she felt in holding this small, soft creature that was the sum product of a deep and unbridled love. Elizabeth considered every agony of carrying and delivering her daughter into the world to have been worth it, from the moment she heard those first offended cries.

  She plucked the letter from her sleeping husband’s side and read Richard’s well-wishes. When she was finished, she read it again, looking between the lines. This dim world. She didn’t know what to think about him sometimes. Determined to make the best of things or wallowing in pointless self-pity? Or maybe, he’s just a man at war.

  With little Maggie stirring in her arms, she put the letter aside, fo
rgetting it at once.

  December 17, 1952

  Dear Evie,

  I hope you and Arthur are well, and the little ones too. Send them love from Uncle Richard. Though this letter won’t reach you for some time after (if it arrives at all), I wanted to wish you a merry Christmas. I spent most of this God-forsaken month marching up and down a mountainside, freezing all my bits off, but when I came in, there was a letter from you, and it made for a damned cheerful evening, all things considering.

  It’s colder than the North Pole here, but the men have stopped complaining so I count these blessings where I find them. I’ve been thinking about James a lot since I got here. How brave he was to foster something as fragile as love during wartime. I’m glad that he did, as I’ve come to look forward to your letters, my friend.

  Richard paused writing his letter long enough to rub his hands together, desperate for warmth. Winter in Korea had become a lesson on the brutality of nature. He’d once had occasion to visit Duluth, Minnesota to tour the Iron Ore Mining operation he’d invested in. He remembered at the time the gut-punch feeling of the cold air hitting him, the sudden shock of it making it difficult to breathe. This cold was much the same. The temperature would have been difficult but endurable if not for the Siberian wind that wormed its way through walls and layers of clothing like a spiteful living thing.

  As he rubbed his numbing fingers together for warmth, he heard the scuffle of boots outside his tent.

  “Come in,” he said, folding up his letter and feeding it into his little chimney fire. It had become a form of therapy for him. Write a letter, then burn it. He wrote letters to everyone. His father, his mother, James, Evie and Arthur, Will and Elizabeth. Mostly Elizabeth, his unknowing confessor.