Longbourn's Songbird

by Beau North

  James walked away and sat on the couch near his brother. They made almost identical bookends though Richard’s features were slightly longer, slightly fairer than his brother’s. James wore adulthood with a natural ease where Richard wondered whether he’d always have one foot in adolescence.

  Richard reached into the pocket of his jacket and produced a flask. He offered it to James, who took it with a lopsided smile.

  “I really can’t wait to see how you get through training,” James said, taking a drink.

  “Surely not as well as Saint Jimmy did,” Richard said with a laugh.

  James rolled his eyes. “You know the old man can’t help himself.”

  They sat in silence for a minute, each contemplating the paternal resentment they could never admit to anyone but each other.

  “I’m worried about Will,” James said as he passed the flask back to Richard. “He hasn’t been the same since Uncle John passed.”

  Richard thought about what Darcy had said at the dinner table, the slightly lost expression in his eyes. “He is carrying that tall, dark, and brooding attitude a little far.”

  “It can’t be good for Georgie.”

  “No, poor kid.” Richard sighed. “I worry she’ll be the one taking care of D and not the other way around.”

  “Girl needs a mom.”

  “Don’t we all?” Richard heard the bitterness in his own voice. It couldn’t be helped. The subject hit too close to home.

  James, who always seemed to know what his brother was thinking, shook his head. “Don’t do that to yourself, Richie. Not now.”

  Suddenly restless, Richard pushed himself up off the couch and strode over to the window. He could feel his brother’s eyes on his back.

  “Have you gone to see her?”

  Richard knew that James had been waiting to throw this particular grenade at him since Richard announced he’d joined the army.

  “What difference would it make? She’s not there anymore.”

  “Maybe,” James said. “But don’t you want to say good-bye?”

  Richard moved the curtains aside and looked out, but it was already well past sunset. There was nothing to see.

  “No. I never want to say good-bye.”

  ***

  May 1942

  Starke, Florida

  Even in the dark belly of the tavern, surrounded by whirring fans, the air was almost too thick to breathe. Richard hated Florida, but the whiskey was helping him forget that. He intended to drink enough so that he even forgot his own damnable name. The little fox-faced woman behind the bar approached him with a bottle in her hand as if she read his mind.

  “Another drink, soldier?”

  “Please.” He pushed his glass forward. “Is it that obvious?”

  “This is the closest watering hole to Camp Blanding for twenty miles,” she said as she poured another two fingers of whiskey in his glass with a tidy twist of her wrist. “And the haircut gives it away.”

  She walked off, leaving him to his drink in peace. Richard took the opportunity to take the telegram out of his pocket. The paper was limp from being handled so much and badly creased from his pocket. He could still read what it said better than he would like.

  The Navy Department deeply regrets to inform you that your brother, James Aaron Fitzwilliam, Lieutenant, USNR was killed in action in the performance of his duty and in the service to his country…

  Richard didn’t need to read past that. In the two days since receiving the telegram, he memorized the regrets therein. He received a second telegram from his father, but he had thrown that one away unopened. With James gone, he and his father no longer had anything to say to each other.

  “Bad news?” Fox-face had returned with her lovely bottle.

  Richard nodded. “As bad as it comes.”

  She turned and took a different bottle down from the top shelf and poured two glasses, handing one to him.

  “I keep this around for the big brass that comes in from time to time. On the house.”

  “Much obliged.” He saluted her. They drank. He expected Kentucky bourbon, but the drink went down smoother than silk, it’s smoky, peaty flavor more delicate than any bourbon he favored. He wiped his mouth.

  “Macallan?”

  The barmaid nodded. “Aged thirty years.”

  Richard wasn’t surprised. It was the admiral’s favorite drink. It seemed that the living were as determined to haunt him as the dead.

  “Who’d you lose?” She nodded at the telegram.

  “Brother. You?”

  “Husband.” Fox-face pointed to a framed portrait hanging behind the bar of a sleepy-eyed man with a grin that just seemed to be hovering on the edge of a joke. He had a likable face.

  “Name’s Rita,” she said. It was hard to tell in the dim bar, but Richard thought she might have actually blushed a little. He took her outstretched hand and gave it a little shake.

  “Pleasure, Rita. I’m James.”

  Richard couldn’t say why he lied. He thought it was because in a way he was keeping James alive through him. James Fitzwilliam would taste one more drink, touch one more woman. It was Richard’s own little revenge against the cruel passage of time. This moment for him was closer to his brother’s life than the next would be.

  He pushed away from the bar, wanting very much to be out from under her considering gaze.

  “Is there a pay phone here, Rita?”

  “Over in the back. Past the pool tables.”

  Richard found it easily enough. After giving the operator his instructions, he soon had Darcy’s voice in his ear.

  “Richie, is that you?”

  “Hullo, D. How’s tricks?”

  “Jesus, Richie. We got the word about James.”

  Richard felt like a stone that had been dropped into a well—nothing but sinking darkness and the pressure of waiting to hit bottom.

  “Is Georgie okay?” It seemed like the safest thing he could ask.

  Darcy sighed. “No, but that’s not surprising. We both loved James like a brother.”

  “I know.”

  Silence fell between them. Richard couldn’t even say why he’d called Darcy. Maybe to ask how he was supposed to feel. Of everyone he knew, he thought Darcy of all people would know. But when it came down to it, Richard couldn’t make the words.

  “Do you have leave? Are you coming home?”

  Richard now felt like this phone call had been a mistake. “No, I’ve got a few days, but I won’t be coming back.”

  “He was the best of all of us, you know.”

  Richard knew they were supposed to be words of comfort, but they made him irrationally angry. He didn’t need the likes of Will Darcy to tell him how good James had been. James, who had been more of a parent to Richard than his own father.

  James, who would forgive any sin whether it was repented or not.

  “Look, D, I gotta go,” Richard said hastily. “Give Georgie my love, will ya?”

  “Richie, wait!” Richard hung up, cutting Darcy off. He made his way back to the bar where Rita was wiping the bar with a rag. The only other person in the place was a man in yellowing cook’s whites, who sat listening to the Cubs game on the bar’s aging Philco.

  Richard gave Rita a questioning look. He wanted to take her to bed. Not because she was pretty— no, he’d had much prettier. Perhaps he recognized the same sad desperation in her that he felt. It wouldn’t be anything as easy as sex. He knew that he would fuck her until they were nothing but a quivering tangle of limbs, until they weren’t even people but animals, spitting into the face of death itself.

  He didn’t let his face hide what he was thinking. She eyed him carefully, finally throwing her bar rag at the cook.

  “Keep an eye on the place, Eugene. I’m taking a break.”

  ***

  August 1944

  Brest, France

  Rubble crunched underfoot as the men darted from building to building then crouched along the side wall of what used
to be a chemists’ shop. Richard took a second to wipe the dust from his face with the sleeve of his jacket, clearing his eyes.

  “Riggleman, Carter, Hollis.” The men edged forward, listening. “You three take your men up the high street. We need the end of the lane to be a choke point. Maybe we can get them bottlenecked enough to get one of those tanks through. Reed, Skinner. You two hold this spot. Landry, you’re with me.”

  The men all nodded and went about following his orders. Landry held his rifle ready, crouch-running behind Richard as they moved into the next building. It might have been a bakery once. They were to clear the building and proceed to the next as they had been doing for the last seventeen hours. The initial surge of adrenaline had long worn off, leaving Richard cold and empty. His rifle was slung over his shoulder; he ran out of ammo for it hours ago. His Browning was pointed and ready, his form perfect despite the blisters on his hands from gripping the stock. He nodded at Landry, and they advanced together into the dim front room of the building.

  To the right was a long serving counter, where not so long ago patrons probably sat to have their morning café et croissant. Richard nudged Landry, nodding towards the counter. Landry nodded and they split up, shuffling forward quietly.

  Richard rounded the side of the counter, pistol first, but still seconds too late. He heard a loud crack and the side of Landry’s head disappeared, the smell of meat and cordite filling the room. There were two German soldiers behind the counter, the older of the two holding the Luger that had just killed Richard’s corporal. Richard fired twice without blinking, watching the Nazi crumple into a boneless heap before the younger one tackled him.

  He hit the stone floor hard enough to push the breath out of his lungs, spots dancing in front of his eyes. The German grabbed the front of Richard’s jacket and pulled him halfway up, spittle flying into Richard’s face as he screamed.

  “Getötet Klaus! Sie getötet mein bruder!”[1]

  Dazed, Richard felt the barrel of the German’s Luger pressing into the softer flesh of his abdomen before the younger man pulled the trigger twice. Then he felt nothing.

  His Luger spent, the Nazi threw his gun away and resorted to using his fists. Richard vaguely felt his nose break. He supposed it was odd that, with two bullets in his gut and a smashed face, the thing he felt most were the annoying blisters on his hand. Then again, the blisters reminded him that he was still holding his sidearm.

  The German pulled out a trench knife. Richard could feel it digging into the flesh just below his collarbone and realized that the man meant to cut out his heart. Knowing he was about to die, his last thought was of his brother, gone two years now. James.

  Maybe it was the memory of James—good, kind James—that roused him, made him decide to live. With monumental effort, he raised the hand that held his Colt, keeping his arm to the side so that the barrel was against the German’s temple before the other man even noticed. Richard fired and the German collapsed on top of him, painting him red with gore.

  With a strength that surprised even him, Richard managed to push the body away. He lifted his head and looked down at his abdomen, a burnt and red ruin.

  “Oh, fuck me,” he muttered, wrinkling his nose at the smell. He had to strain to see; either the room was getting darker or he was about to die.

  Putting his weight on one arm, Richard dragged himself across the room to where Landry’s body lay cooling. He reached into his corporal’s shirt and pulled out his dog tags, managing to snap one off. He lay back at last, his eyes drawn to a pattern like a fan across the ceiling. Richard realized it was Landry’s brains. He closed his eyes. The room had gotten too dark to see anyway.

  ***

  September 1944

  Frenchay Hospital

  Bristol, England

  The young ensign who brought the letter smelled so strongly of Vitalis hair tonic that Richard had asked him to stand outside the privacy screens while he read the message. He hated Vitalis. It’s what his father always wore.

  Captain Fitzwilliam — Received word of your injuries. When you are convalesced, I have given instruction that you are to be brought to me in Liverpool. — Your Father

  Richard winced in pain as a laugh escaped him. He lost his spleen to one of the German’s bullets. The second had gone straight through. The real damage had come from the infection. In the month since Brest, he lost over fifteen pounds between the illness and its cure. When the nurse came to change his bandages, Richard could count his ribs.

  He started to look forward to his morphine more and more. At first, that soft oblivion bothered him. He hadn’t liked the loss of control, but once he surrendered to it, he found that his ghosts could not follow him into that violet-hued sleep. Better to have false peace than no peace at all.

  “Sir?” The young ensign reminded him of his presence.

  “Got a date tonight, sailor?” Richard let the southern drawl creep into his voice, remembering how the admiral had always hated that.

  “Sir?” The ensign peeked around the curtained area. Richard sighed. The kid was like a broken record. He didn’t want to see the old man, but the admiral clearly wouldn’t be giving him a choice in the matter. They hadn’t spoken face-to-face in two years. He might as well get it over with.

  “What’s the time?” The ensign looked at his watch. Clocks were not common in Frenchay. Richard found himself wishing he still had the wristwatch that Darcy gave him the day he left, but he lost it in Avranches.

  “Fourteen thirty, sir.” Only a half hour until the nurse arrived with another dose of morphine. He wondered whether he could finagle a vial to take with him to Liverpool when the time came.

  “Tell the admiral I will come to him when I’ve been cleared for travel,” Richard said, counting the minutes until he found oblivion again.

  ***

  December 1944

  Faulkner Square

  Liverpool, England

  Navigating the snowy street with a cane had proven to be more of a challenge than Richard had bargained for. The snow had only started falling that day, obscuring the harbor and the ocean behind it. Richard double-checked the address before ringing the bell. A sallow man with a wispy mustache let him in and took his coat. Richard looked around, unsurprised that his father would have chosen to quarter himself in such a stern and colorless home.

  An ensign came out to meet him. “Good to see you again, sir.”

  “Have we met?” Richard thought he seemed familiar, but there were great swaths of his memory that were still fuzzy.

  “In Bristol, three months ago.” Richard nodded. The morphine. It had taken weeks for the poison to leave his system, and even then, he felt a tremor in his hand at the thought of it.

  “The admiral’s waiting—just this way,” the young man said smoothly. His father’s aide probably would’ve been informed of all of the particulars of Richard’s recovery, including his reluctance to give up the wonderful morphine. The admiral never believed in secrets, which was exactly why Richard had always been so determined to keep them.

  The ensign led him back to a study, lit with oil lanterns and heated by a fire crackling in the fireplace. The walls were a green so deep it was only a few shades away from being black, giving the room an uncomfortable feeling of tightness despite its lofty ceiling. The room had once held a great many books; the smell of leather bindings and old paper were still strong. Now the shelves were bare—its treasures carried off, or sold, or burned for warmth.

  His father was much the same as he was the last time Richard had seen him, stern-faced and cold, though he seemed to have aged at least ten years. His skin was paper-thin, his hair no longer silvery-blonde but white. Richard always thought Darcy was more like the admiral than Richard would ever be. There was a severity in their bearings that was much the same.

  “Admiral Fitzwilliam, sir,” the ensign said. The admiral looked up at his only living son, his blue-green eyes still sharp and clear despite his age.

  “Dismisse
d,” he said casually. The ensign left the room, closing the door behind him. Richard fought the urge to straighten his uniform under his father’s keen stare. It hung on him like a sack.

  “So…you’re still recovering.” The admiral nodded at the cane in Richard’s hand.

  “Another operation was required. Only last month.”

  “You’ve lost weight.”

  “Yet I’ve retained my movie-star looks.”

  The admiral frowned. “News from home,” his father said, rattling a piece of paper in front of him. “Your investment in Darcy’s munitions factory seems to have paid off well.”

  Richard wanted to laugh. “Is that why I’m here?” His father leaned forward, eyes cutting into him.

  “I allowed you to use your inheritance from your grandfather’s estate for this investment with the stipulation that you maintain a seat on the board of trustees. Now you can go home and see to your responsibilities.”

  “My responsibilities are out there.” Richard bristled, pointing east, where his men were fighting. They would be in The Ardennes by then, and Richard meant to join them.

  “This war is all but over,” the admiral said dismissively. “By the time you are fit to return for duty, it will be over. I see no reason why you shouldn’t convalesce at home.”

  “The investment was for Darcy. Not for you.”

  “It’s already done,” his father said, looking down at his desk. “I pulled some strings. You’ve been discharged for a week now. You will ship out in two days.”

  “This must be a fucking joke.” Richard did laugh this time. The admiral looked up, his eyes furious.

  “You will not use that tone, or that language, in the presence of a superior officer! Do I make myself clear?”

  Richard pointed his cane at his father. “You just had me discharged, so right now you’re just a superior asshole!” His words brought the admiral to his feet, his fists planted on the desk in front of him.

  “You are a disappointment as a military officer and a disappointment as a son!”

  Richard threw his cane against the heavy marble mantelpiece, where it cracked into two jagged pieces. The sound was as sharp as gunfire in the empty room.