Chapter Sixteen The Siege of the Colonel’s Bedchamber
Chapter Sixteen: The Siege of the Colonel's Bedchamber
Colonel Richard Fitzwilliam had not crossed the threshold of his bedchamber door in three days, four hours, and twenty-seven minutes.
He knew the exact tally because he had taken to glaring at the mantel clock every time it chimed, as if the hour hand were personally responsible for his current predicament.
The ceiling of his room at Matlock House boasted seventeen cracks. He had named them all. Crack Number One was Caroline's laugh. Crack Number Four was the precise instant she had said, "A lemon, Colonel? Truly?"
Crack Number Twelve was the moment he had decided to chase her carriage down Davies Street like a deranged groom at a runaway bride.
The rest were variations on the theme of profound personal failure, with a few dedicated to the general injustice of being born a second son with excellent breeding and deplorable finances.
He lay flat on his back, his arms folded across his chest like a crusader effigy, still wearing the same nightshirt he had donned on the morning of his humiliation.
The garment had begun to develop its own personality, something between a disgraced footman and a disgruntled sheep.
The room itself had taken on the faint, tragic aroma of stale tea, unwashed linen, and existential regret.
Peters, Robert's valet, had once ventured in to suggest airing the windows.
Richard had informed him that fresh air was for men who still possessed hope.
A soft knock and Peters entered. He glanced at a tray that might once have been breakfast. Now it resembled a still-life entitled "Abandonment in Porcelain."
"The beef is cold, Sir," Peters observed with the weary tact of a man who had seen many Fitzwilliams in various stages of romantic collapse.
"Matches my soul," Richard muttered.
Peters inspected closely the tray on the bedside table, where it lay along with three identical predecessors. "You have not eaten since Tuesday, sir. Or possibly Monday. The days have begun to blur."
"Time is an illusion, Peters. So is dignity."
"Very philosophical, sir." Peters regarded the untouched beef. "Shall I fetch more mustard?"
"No. Mustard is for optimists."
Peters withdrew, because he knew better than to argue with a colonel in love. The door closed softly. Richard returned his attention to the ceiling.
Crack Number Seven was particularly offensive. It looked exactly like the curve of Caroline's eyebrow when she delivered a killing glance. He had spent the better part of an hour yesterday trying to decide whether the resemblance was deliberate or merely cruel coincidence.
The door burst open.
"Good God above," Robert exclaimed, striding in as if he had come to arrest a stubborn criminal. "It smells as though a badger has expired in here, held a wake, and then invited its entire extended family to the funeral."
Richard did not move. "Go away."
"And miss the spectacle of my brother decomposing in luxury? Never." He crossed to the windows and flung the curtains wide. Sunlight poured in. Richard hissed and yanked the counterpane over his head.
Robert regarded the lump on the bed.
"This," he declared, "is pathetic. You are pathetic. I had once found a dead rat in my boot and I still consider it an improvement over your current situation. I did not ride all the way from Cornwall to watch you ferment into blue cheese."
"I am not fermenting," came the muffled reply. "I am contemplating."
"You are pickling."
Robert sat on the edge of the mattress with confidence, knowing that his brother would not actually strike him. Probably.
"Up," he commanded. "Now."
"I am in mourning."
"For whom?"
"My pride. It was last seen fleeing down Davies Street in terror."
Robert snorted. "Your pride has been fleeing since you were twelve and tried to impress that housemaid by juggling the silver salvers."
The door opened again and Darcy entered. His arms were crossed behind his back and his lips were pinched in that certain way which revealed he had been sent on an errand he deeply resented.
"Elizabeth has composed a speech," he announced without preamble. "It is three pages long. It contains the phrase 'melodramatic wallowing, typical of men who mistake self-pity for moral depth.' She instructed me to deliver it verbatim."
Richard's head emerged from the counterpane just enough to glare. "That sounds exactly like her."
"She also said that if I do not extract you from this room within the hour, she will come herself." Darcy paused. "I believe her capable of it."
Richard considered this. Elizabeth Darcy was many things. Hesitant was not among them.
"She would not dare."
"She would," Darcy said flatly, "and she would bring Georgiana for moral support, which would make the occasion approximately twelve times more mortifying."
Robert clapped his hands together once, delighted. "Excellent. Now that we have established the threat level as highest tier, perhaps we might discuss why you are currently auditioning for the role of the tragic hero in a very bad play."
Richard sat up. His hair resembled a startled hedgehog. His nightshirt had surrendered several buttons to the cause of despair. He looked, he suspected, precisely as ridiculous as he felt.
"She laughed at me." The words came out quieter than he intended. "She laughed, Robert. After I chased her and declared my love. Like some lovesick ensign."
Robert softened, just fractionally. "You are a Fitzwilliam. We chase things. Horses, foxes, unsuitable women. It is practically tradition."
"I called her a lemon."
Darcy coughed into his fist.
Robert stared. "You have called her worse. The Banshee of Bond Street? Rings any bells?"
Richard groaned in anguish.
Darcy coughed again, harder.
Robert threw back his head and laughed until tears appeared in the corners of his eyes. "Oh, this is magnificent. I am never recovering."
Richard buried his face in his hands. "I am aware it was not my finest hour."
"It was not even your finest minute," Robert wheezed. "It was not even your finest second."
Richard sat on the edge of the mattress, his bare feet touching cold floorboards, his hair in wild disarray, the nightshirt gaping at the chest like a defeated flag.
Robert paced before him with folded arms, the very picture of fraternal exasperation.
Darcy stood near the window looking as though he would rather be anywhere else on earth.
Robert stopped pacing and pointed one finger at his brother.
"Right. Facts. You told a woman you loved her. She laughed. Now you wish to die of the fever. Have I summarised correctly?"
"I wish to die of the fever in some tropical hellhole." Richard corrected with weary precision after having spent three days perfecting his tragedy.
"Oh. I see. The distinction matters."
Darcy cleared his throat. "You must get up, Richard. Elizabeth will not wait forever. Neither will Miss Bingley."
Richard looked from one to the other. His brother. His cousin. Both regarding him as though he were a horse that had bolted and must now be coaxed back into the stable with sugar and patience. He sighed. It was a very long sigh, the sort that had waited three days to be released.
"Very well," he said. "I will bathe. I will dress. I will attempt to resemble a human being again. But only because I know your wife, Darcy."
Robert clapped him on the shoulder. "That's the spirit. Peters! Hot water! Soap! A razor sharp enough to cut through three days of muck!"
Peters materialised in the doorway as though summoned by witchcraft. "Very good, my Lord. The bath is already drawn. I anticipated the need."
Richard stood. The room tilted briefly. He steadied himself against the bedpost. "I need my breeches."
"That can be arranged, sir," Peters said, already moving to the wardrobe.
Darcy stepped forward, his face bearing his usual grave expression. "Before you vanish into steam and redemption, there is one matter we must discuss."
Richard raised an eyebrow. "Elizabeth again? For heavens sakes, Darcy, have you not a mind of your own?"
Darcy ignored the jest. "Thornwood. My estate in Kent. It is small, profitable, too far from Derbyshire for me to manage properly. The steward grows old. The place requires a firm hand."
Richard's eyes narrowed. "No."
"You have not heard the offer."
"I do not need to hear it. The answer is no."
Darcy pressed on. "Richard, it is a business arrangement. You would be doing me a favour. The rents are steady. The house is sound. The land is fertile. You could live there, oversee it, draw an income that would allow you—"
"To play at gentleman on borrowed land?" His voice rose, sharp with sudden heat. "No, Darcy. I was born a second son and I will die as such. I have made my peace with that. I will not take your estate."
"It is not taking. It is managing. You would earn your place."
"I would be your pensioner with a title. I would be the poor relation kept in the country while you reside in splendour at Pemberley."
Darcy's jaw tightened. "You are my cousin. You are family. This is what family does."
"Family does not turn one man into a steward so that another may feel noble. Keep Thornwood for your children. I am sure they will not be far behind."
Darcy's face flushed crimson. "Elizabeth and I are not—we have not—Can we please focus—"
Robert threw up his hands. "For heaven's sake, Fitzwilliam, stop blushing like a debutante.
Richard, listen. You need income. You need purpose.
You need to stop planning your death in tropical fevers.
Thornwood is perfect. Take it. Manage it.
Use it to build a life that does not depend on a dowry you no longer wish to pursue in dishonour. "
Richard looked at the floor. The boards were cold. The room was quiet except for the distant chime of the clock and the faint hiss of steam from the dressing room beyond.
"I was born to soldier," he said at last. "I have a commission. I have debts. I have a horse that bites the farrier. That is my lot."