Chapter 12
Chapter Twelve
THE SOLDIER RETURNS
The journey home to England was everything Richard had expected.
It was long and tedious, a good time to rest and finally recover from the injuries he had sustained in his fall down the stairs, as well as those exacerbated by his encounter with Weekes on that unthinkable night.
He reread some of the books he had brought with him so very long ago and played endless friendly games of cribbage and all-fours with his batman and some of the other passengers.
The enforced rest also gave him ample time—too much time—to reflect again and again upon that kiss and what it meant.
He chewed over the same ideas until he began to believe he had invented the entire incident in his mind.
And what did that mean, that his thoughts went to kissing Emily rather than standing by her as a friend.
And her response: what was he to make of that? It could only be that she was so overcome with shock from Weekes’ attack that she took whatever comfort she could in the arms of a friend, and if that comfort came in the form of a supportive embrace and a passionate kiss, then so be it.
Oh, how these thoughts renewed themselves with ceaseless recurrence until Richard was mightily sick of them!
At last, three days after the New Year, Richard finally stumbled off the rocking, creaking ship and into the bosom of his family.
His bruises had faded to nothing, and his aching muscles were quite healed, and when he appeared before his noble parents’ front door, he was in fine shape, as strong and vigorous as the earl and countess would expect from their military son.
He stood at the top of the stairs by the front door and waited for Nattwall, the butler, to usher him inside.
“Master Richard!” the old man beamed. “That is, Colonel Fitzwilliam! What a pleasure to see you, sir. Let me take your hat and coat.”
Richard stepped inside and took a deep breath.
The house smelled warmly familiar, a mixture of smoke from the fires that burned in the hearths and the fragrance of whatever blossoms his mother had managed to procure even in the coldest months of winter.
How different it was from the fort, whose rooms smelled musty and of male perspiration, or of the ship with its odours of salt and gently rotting wood.
He closed his eyes and breathed deeply, allowing the sensation of home to wash over him.
A noise from the door to the back parlour caught his attention.
There, looking very much as she ever had, stood his mother.
Perhaps her hair was streaked with a bit more grey, and her eyes were a bit more lined, but she stood strong and proud and full of life.
She saw him and a great smile appeared on her aristocratic face.
“Richard, you have returned!” Her modulated voice held that shimmer of delight reserved only for family.
She strode across the vast hall, her slippered feet silent upon the marble-tiled floor, to enfold her second son in an emotional embrace, most unexpected in one of her elevated status.
“We did not know when to expect you! We thought it might not be for another week, or longer. Oh, it is good to see you, to have you back in England once more.”
“Mother,” he kissed her cheek. Such displays of affection were not the thing at this rarefied level of society, but they were in private, and he did care for his parents.
“I was not pleased to be summoned back from my posting so precipitously, but it is good to be home. How does Arthur,” he mentioned his older brother, the viscount, “and what of his wife and children? Are they all well? Ah, good! And father?”
“The earl is at his club,” Lady Matlock pronounced ever-so-formally. “He did not know to expect you today and went on with his accustomed routine.”
“Yes, yes, of course. He is well, I take it. I shall have words with him about my return, but they shall not be too severe. I look forward to seeing him again as well.”
“Let John take your bags to your room. Do your trunks follow?”
“No, they shall be sent directly to the barracks where I will take up my next assignment. At Father’s command!”
“Very well.” Whether she strove to conceal that momentary sigh of disappointment, or had honed it, Richard could not say.
“Regardless, it will be a joy to have you with us for some days until your duties begin. You go up and rest, and I shall join you shortly for a nice coze. In the meantime, I shall demand from Cook the best dinner she can arrange on such short notice. Up you go!”
With a quick peck on the cheek, she hurried off to summon her housekeeper and cook, and Richard surrendered his few bags to the footman, who had appeared as if from nowhere.
After the relative austerity of his accommodations at the Royal Dockyard in Bermuda, this house was very grand indeed.
He had no need for such extravagant luxury, and was really well satisfied with the quarters he had held abroad, but he did appreciate what surrounded him.
There would be, no doubt, a hot bath drawn for him in the small bathing room attached to his chambers, where a modern system of plumbing would later on carry the cooled water down a set of pipes to the gardens below.
His room was exactly as he remembered it.
The linens were fresh—his mother must have had them changed in anticipation of his imminent arrival—and the furniture recently dusted, but the counterpane was unchanged, the curtains were drawn exactly as he liked them, and the small shaving table was set up by the chair near the window in expectation of soon being used.
Thomas, his batman, was surely being welcomed into the servants’ quarters at this very moment and being given a comfortable place to sleep.
There was no valet’s alcove off Richard’s room, and he preferred it thus for the privacy it afforded him.
Richard shrugged out of his red coat and threw himself onto the bed, breathing deeply of the familiar air.
The fire was out, but almost immediately, a young maid tapped at the door and set about relighting the blaze.
Winter kept the house cold, and only those rooms in use were treated to the warmth of a fire.
After the maid scuttled out, he allowed his eyes to rove about the space.
Yes, rich amber curtains and upholstery, glowing honey wooden furniture, and pale linen walls, all exactly to his tastes, exactly as he had had the room decorated so long ago.
Despite the circumstances, it was good to be home!
Dinner that first night was a grand affair, for all that it involved only family.
Richard’s father was delighted to have his son back in England and promptly cancelled his card game with some of his peers in favour of spending the evening at home.
Likewise, Arthur and his wife were somehow available at the last moment to dine, and welcomed Richard back with great enthusiasm.
The last member of the festive party was Richard’s cousin Will Darcy, whom he considered as much a friend as a dear relation, whose letters Richard had most anticipated with the arrival of each packet in Bermuda.
It was Darcy whom Richard really longed to see. He cared greatly for his parents and tolerated his brother, whom he considered to be a bit of a fool, but he had truly missed his cousin.
“Will!” He greeted Darcy with a hearty pat on the back, which became a quick and somewhat embarrassed embrace. Men of society did not engage in physical demonstrations of mutual affection. “How have you been? Your letters kept me sane, I believe, my one true connection back to hearth and home.”
“Indeed?” Darcy returned with a single raised eyebrow. “You told me of the fine society in Hamilton. Surely the elite of the island kept your mind well and truly engaged.” Darcy’s manner could be aloof and reserved, but amongst those he knew well, he was open and excellent company.
Richard offered a wide grin. “Oh, indeed there were many excellent people in the town. But it was a fair distance from the fort, one not easily travelled by any means other than boat. If one were to dine out, one was obliged to spend the night. Most often, my duties precluded that possibility. Whilst several afternoons were spent in their fine company, my evenings were most often spent on my own.”
“Did you not find good company amongst your fellow officers? I recall you writing of Colonel Barrow with great respect.”
“That I did. A finer man you cannot meet. The other men, however, were less to my liking. But let us talk of this later. It is good to see you again, cousin. Let us join the others in the salon.”
Darcy nodded and loped across the space to the salon where the family were gathered before dinner.
Richard stared after him. Perhaps it was merely the passage of time that clouded his view; perhaps Darcy was somewhat ill at ease at seeing him again after so long an absence—heavens knew that Darcy did not perform well to those he did not know intimately—but there was something about him that seemed, well, different.
His long-legged stride was not as easy as before, his manner just that bit more reserved.
We shall become acquainted once more, and all shall return to how things were before, Richard told himself before following to join the party.
That evening, after the meal was over and cigars smoked and coffee consumed, and after Arthur and Darcy had departed for their homes, Richard sat down to write to Emily as he had promised.
How he wished he need not consign his words to the page, but could speak them aloud in her presence, to see her thoughtful face and hear her sensible words.
Time apart had not dimmed his admiration for her, nor his appreciation of her friendship.