The Colonel

by Beau North

  “I don’t need—”

  “Ben. Stop it.” There was something in her voice that made him shut up—a slight quaver?

  “Okay. Hi.”

  She bent down, her fingers clamping on his wrist. He held still, feeling somewhat pathetic. He loved that she was touching him, even if she was only taking his pulse in her most professional manner.

  Her eyes met his. He could never get enough of the sight of her. The long lashes, the deep, velvet-brown of her eyes, the way they turned up slightly at the edges. Her hair, pulled back in a ruthlessly tight bun, shone black with threads of gold and auburn in the afternoon sun.

  “What were you saying when I got here?” she asked in a quiet voice.

  “I, ah…I was just repeating something my therapist told me about panic attacks. That you should acknowledge them when they happen.”

  “Therapist?”

  “Someone told me that therapy helps with PTSD and anxiety.”

  Her eyes flitted back to her wristwatch. He suspected it was so she didn’t have to look at him anymore.

  “How are you?” he asked.

  “Shhh. I’m trying to count.”

  The ambulance arrived with quiet fanfare, its red and white lights flashing silently. She gave his wrist a final squeeze before standing to explain the situation to one of the EMTs. The other had a blood pressure cuff strapped around his wrist before he could blink and was already asking him the usual questions.

  He wanted her to come back, to talk to him, to be with him, but all she could do was give him a nod and a wave before climbing back in her police cruiser. He watched her go with a sinking heart, barely registering that the EMTs had him up and in the ambulance. He watched her drive away until the bay doors were shut. I guess it really is over. The thought made him want to shut himself in his room with his dad’s old Waylon Jennings albums until he remembered the strange look she got when he told her he was in therapy. It had been so brief, so fleeting, but for a second he thought she seemed…pleased. He thought of his father, and one of his favorite expressions later in life. It ain’t over till it’s over, kid.

  “The good news is, your heart is just fine. What you had was a panic attack.” The doctor’s expression was so pleasantly bland that Ben couldn’t tell if she was being facetious or not.

  “Yeah, I kinda figured,” Ben said. He was so tired that he could barely keep his eyes open. The doctor, an Indian woman of indeterminate age who’d introduced herself as Dr. Kulkarni, frowned down at his chart, her heavy black eyebrows drawing together in concern.

  “But we ran some tests. You have a family history of stroke?”

  Ben shifted in the hard, little bed. He was still in his running clothes, and now that the sweat had fully dried, he felt grimy. He was fairly sure he stank to high heaven.

  “My dad. His father too.”

  “Your blood pressure is higher than we like to see, Mr. Fitzwilliam. You should make an appointment with your GP to be tested for hypertension. Are you a smoker?”

  He shook his head. “Dad was. I never had the taste for it.”

  She made a note on his chart. “I see that you exercise. How is your diet?”

  He shrugged. “I try to eat well.”

  The doctor smiled at him. It was a comforting smile that said we’re in this together. “But?”

  He laughed. “But I love trash food. Fast food, fried chicken, burgers, tacos…. I could kill for some tacos right now.”

  “For me, it is sweets,” the doctor said. “I love candy, but I am diabetic.” She pointed to a device clipped onto her white coat. “My insulin pump. Every time I see candy, I touch this to remind myself why I can’t have it.”

  “So you’re saying I should walk around wearing a blood pressure cuff at all times?”

  “That is not the worst idea!” she exclaimed, but she laughed too. He liked this doctor. She had a warm, maternal presence. “I’ll give you a referral if you need one. I see you recently moved here from New York. Is someone coming to pick you up?”

  He hadn’t even thought about how he was going to get home. He supposed he could always call Cal, but the caretaker’s number was programmed into his phone, which was sitting on the kitchen counter in his house.

  “I’ll give him a ride.”

  Ben looked up to see Keisha, still in uniform, top button undone, her bright white undershirt showing just enough to indicate that she was now off duty.

  His doctor smiled. “Officer Barnes! How nice to see you. How’s your mum?”

  Keisha put a hand on Dr. Kulkarni’s shoulder. “She’s good. It’s good to see you, Pradha.” She turned to Ben, her expression guarded once more. “How’s your patient?”

  Dr. Kulkarni’s brows lifted. “Is he under arrest?”

  “I’m sure he should be, but no. This is a purely altruistic act on my part.”

  Ben snorted, shook his head. “I’m sitting right here.”

  Keisha grinned and came to stand beside his bed. She bent down and peered at him through narrowed eyes.

  How could you have let her go, you ignorant ass?

  “Hmm. You seem okay to me.”

  “I could use a shower.”

  She wrinkled her nose. “Well, I wasn’t going to say anything.”

  “Just drive back with the windows down?”

  “I don’t think I’ll have a choice.”

  “So you two do know each other,” the doctor interrupted, wearing a knowing smile on her face. “A nurse will be by to give you discharge instructions soon, Mr. Fitzwilliam. Don’t wait too long to see your GP.”

  “Thanks, Doc.”

  She pointed an unpolished finger at him. “See them this week if you can, hmm?”

  “You got it.”

  With a final wave, she left them alone in the cramped space. Keisha’s expression fell into more serious lines. “How are you, really?”

  “Honestly? A little freaked out. But I’m glad to see you.”

  She hesitated. He rushed to fill the silence.

  “I’m not trying anything here, Keisha. I just meant…it was scary, and it was good to see a friendly face. A lifesaver, really.”

  She didn’t seem any more satisfied with this answer. She nodded, avoiding his eyes. “I’m glad you’re okay.”

  The ride home was silent, the weight of all that was unspoken hanging like heavy curtains between them. Ben knew if he even tried to part that fabric, he’d find himself turned around, lost, saying the wrong thing. Better to let that first move, those first words, be hers.

  She walked him to the front door but hung back when he asked if she wanted to come inside.

  “I can’t, actually. We’re having a cookout for my grandma’s birthday, and I’m already late.” She looked at her watch and frowned. “Are you going to be okay?”

  Ben felt slightly foolish about all the fuss that had already been made over his episode. “Yeah, of course. Go, have fun with your family.”

  She nodded and turned to walk back to her car. She only turned around when he called out her name.

  “Yes?”

  “Would you…would you want to get coffee sometime?”

  There, he saw it—a hint of that crooked smile. They stood like that for a long moment before she replied.

  “Sure. Why not?”

  Part III

  You Don’t Know How Lucky You Are

  22

  July 27, 1954

  Pemberley Manor

  Lambton

  Perhaps later in life she might have said that an unseen force guided her to the music room that day, but the truth was that she needed a bit of space and a few moments of quiet to calm her nerves. Had Elizabeth been there, she would have skillfully directed the spotlight on to herself, knowing that Georgiana was still easily overwhelmed at large gatherings. But Elizabeth was visiting Longbourn, and Georgiana was asked with serving as lady of the house, hosting a wedding reception for the Goldmans, a couple who’d met working in her brother’s furniture factory.


  At twenty-one years old, she felt much more up to the task than she had when she was younger, but she occasionally needed moments of solitude or she found herself getting frazzled and tense. She stole into the music room, looking for a quiet place to be alone when she saw the room was already occupied. She halted in her tracks, watching the unfamiliar man lightly touching the keys of her piano. His plain blue shirt and navy slacks told her that he was one of the factory workers. His frame was lean, his back broad and straight. Long fingers coaxed a few hesitant sounds from her piano. She thought it sounded like “Für Elise.”

  She stepped into the room and he turned around, jumping away from the piano. Georgiana stilled, taking him in. Warm hazel eyes were set off by thick, midnight-black hair combed neatly back from a wide brow. His face would have been rather ordinary had it not been for his high, dramatic cheekbones. In a glance, she could tell that he was a few years older than she was, maybe even as old as Will.

  “I am sorry,” the man said in heavily accented English.

  “Please, do not trouble yourself,” she said. “Bądź spokojny.” Be calm. She’d learned a few phrases from the people who had come to Lambton for new opportunities, new lives.

  His face lit with interest. “Mówisz po polsku?” You speak Polish?

  Georgiana blushed and shook her head. “I’m sorry. I only know how to say a few things.”

  He nodded, somewhat disappointed. “I will go,” he said. His voice was deep and rich.

  “No, please don’t trouble yourself,” she said. She nodded toward the piano. “Do you play?”

  “Not piano.” He hesitated a moment, his face going curiously blank. “My mama played.”

  Georgiana nodded. A cold sensation began to spread through the pit of her stomach. She only wished it was not so familiar, this feeling she got when she was face-to-face with tragedy and pain.

  “It was a beautiful wedding,” she blurted out. She didn’t want this strange, mesmerizing man to leave. His eyes, she noticed, were a brown so light they glittered like topaz. He smiled. It was a gorgeous smile, full of light.

  “All weddings are beautiful,” he said with a solemn sort of happiness. He struggled for a moment to find the right words. “New families.”

  “Hmm. I know what you mean. I love my brother, but we were a different kind of family until he married Elizabeth.”

  He smiled crookedly at her, his delight genuine. “The singer!”

  “Yes, that’s her. She’s taken my niece Maggie to see her grandparents in South Carolina, or I know she’d want to be here.”

  He seemed ready to leave again when she pointed at the piano. “You can come play. Anytime.”

  He shook his head. “I not so good.”

  “I could teach you,” she offered, maybe too quickly. He gazed at her a long minute. He pointed at his chest.

  “Ari Prenska.”

  She smiled. “Georgiana Darcy.”

  He frowned and tried a few iterations of her name before shaking his head in frustration.

  “You can call me Ana, if you like.” She wasn’t sure why she’d offered such a thing. No one had ever called her Ana. She was rather swept up in the idea that it was something she could give him that would be his alone.

  But why did she react so strongly, so quickly to this man? And would she ever see him again? And what would they talk about? He was a Jewish refugee with limited English who worked in their factory; she was the scion from two of the oldest and wealthiest families in the country. But he loved music, and he was beautiful, and she wanted to curl up in the sound of his voice, the way a cat would curl up in a sunbeam.

  “Would you like me to?”

  His brows raised in question.

  “Teach you. Piano. English. Whatever you like.”

  Broken as his English was, he still understood what she’d just said. He coughed, seeming flustered, before giving her a short bow–a gesture she found touchingly quaint–and left the room. Not running exactly but close enough. Georgiana sat with a huff at the piano. She ran her long fingers over the keys, imagining the ones he’d touched still warm, the strings of the instrument still vibrating.

  She could relate.

  August 5, 1954

  Lambton County Library

  Lambton

  “Oh, excuse me.” Georgiana righted herself after “accidentally” bumping into the man she’d seen walking out of the Lambton library. She wasn’t trying to follow him, but she’d seen him walking by when she was in the dress shop, the sunlight making his black hair look an inky sort of blue. He wore his usual factory clothes, though they were clean and neatly pressed, not a speck of sawdust or a wrinkle to be seen. Georgiana was beginning to wonder if he owned any other clothing.

  It wasn’t the clothes or the wonderful things the sunlight did to his hair that made her follow him. It was the dreamy, slightly bemused expression on his face. What was he thinking of just then, she wondered. An invisible hand pressed her back, urging her forward, out the door, and down the street, following the unbent line of his back. Her heart pounded against her breastbone like a fist against a door. What was she thinking? What would she say to him? She had no answers, only a strange imperative that propelled her toward him.

  She watched him enter the library and hesitated. Her former tutor, Mrs. Annesley, sometimes worked at the library. She was known and liked there and always doted upon by the other librarians. Georgiana knew that if she went in, there would be a fuss. Practicing what she would say when she saw him again, she paced the sidewalk for what felt like hours but, in truth, was less than ten minutes. She’d made up her mind to go in when they’d collided headfirst. The small stack of books he’d been carrying scattered across the trim lawn as he reached out to steady her.

  “Oh, excuse me.”

  “Miss Darcy!” For a second too long, he looked at her, stricken. She felt hot blood rush to her head, making her cheeks flame red.

  “Mr. Prenska. How nice to see you again.” The words fell from her mouth. Nice wasn’t at all right. With his hands on her arms and the warmth of his body sinking through her cotton dress, the words she wanted escaped her. Mirabile visu. The Latin sprung into her thoughts; its meaning roughly “wonderful to behold.” And he was, with the fascinating glints of green and gold and brown in his eyes, to the full lips parted in surprise. His touch electrified her, sending ripples of sensation across her skin.

  “Th―thank you. For catching me. Please, let me help you collect your books.”

  The books, she noted, carried such titles as English Language and Vocabulary and The Complete Guide to English Idioms.

  “I am trying to learn.” His face flushed.

  “I could tutor you,” she blurted. “I used to teach a class for the wives. Most of the classes offered by the local schools are just for the men. Of course, I suppose you could always just take the class. Oh dear, I’m rambling.”

  His expression became quizzical. “Rambling? You would teach me English?”

  “Well, your English is already quite good.”

  He shook his head, taking the books from her. “Is not so good. To gówno.”

  “I’m afraid I don’t know that one,” she confessed, making him laugh suddenly. She had never seen anything so beautiful as Ari Prenska laughing.

  Oh damn and double damn.

  “Forgive me, I was rude to say that. It means…” He gestured helplessly for a moment, trying to find the word.

  “It’s shit,” he blurted finally, his face turning a glorious scarlet.

  Georgiana felt a grin splitting her face. “Can I tell you a secret?”

  She leaned close and whispered, “I adore coarse language.”

  She smiled up at him, expecting him to laugh or smile back, but his eyes were focused with blazing intensity on the spot where her neck met her shoulder. Her breath caught in her throat. He licked his lips, and a fire erupted in her belly, turning every nerve, every hair, every atom of herself into a bonfire.

&
nbsp; Touch me. I’d sign over every penny I have if you’d just reach out and touch me right now.

  “You smell of winter,” he said, his voice low and husky. His breath was hot on the skin of her neck. Her mouth dropped open in a silent O of surprise.

  And with that, he gathered his books and ran—not walked, ran—away from her.

  September 10, 1954

  Pemberley Furniture Manufacturing

  Lambton

  The basket was becoming heavy in her arms, but Georgiana hardly noticed. Her hungry gaze devoured the sight before her. Ari was sanding a large slab of wood, his powerful forearms tensing and bunching with effort. Fine black hair dusted the skin of those arms. She wanted to reach out and stroke it. He looked up and saw her, those striking eyes of his widening ever so slightly.

  “Ana.” He seemed as surprised by his use of the name as she was by hearing it. The effect on her was an immediate, heady flush of heat that crept down from behind her ears.

  “Hello, Ari. I…I…” She looked down, took a steadying breath. When she looked back up at him, her smile was brightly nervous.

  “Mrs. Schiff?” she asked, looking for the foreman’s wife, who always brought in food and tea for the workers.

  Ari gestured toward the back with his head. “Setting table.”

  She nodded at the plank he’d been sanding. “Isn’t there a machine for that?”

  He shook his head. “One for the rough. For fine, we do by hand.”

  His black hair was damp with sweat and curling slightly. This was only the third time she had seen him, and the first time seeing him so unkempt. She felt a shiver of desire and gripped the handles of her basket tight enough to bruise. He looked down at her basket, the beginnings of a smile on his generous lips.

  “Challah”―he pointed at the round loaves. She smiled.

  “I made them, so I can’t say how good they are, but the wives have been kind to accept my poor attempts for the last couple of years. I brought honey and apples, too. Both harvested from Pemberley. I know Rosh Hashanah begins at sundown.”