For eleven years, he had experienced a life that the aristocracy could never imagine, and it had changed him. Commanding both viscounts and pig farmers, fighting alongside butchers and thieves, dining with emperors, sleeping with whores and countesses, he had come to realize that the Americans were right about one thing—there really was little difference between people.
He remembered the laughter and love between the soldiers and their women in camp—poor people who had nothing in life but each other. He certainly could not settle for less in his own life. He wanted the same tender love that any lowly cottager would. He needed the same sense of family and security taken for granted by any tavern keeper. There was only one woman for him, and if he had to wait a lifetime for her, he would do so. She was his heart and soul, his partner and closest friend, the first true love of his life, and the last.
He stopped before a portrait of his father and his father’s two sisters, Catherine and Anne. Catherine, as the eldest, was seated in the forefront, a countess already at twenty with the hauteur and superior look that had made her famous—fair-haired, porcelain-skinned, and incredibly beautiful. Behind her on her right was Anne Fitzwilliam, Darcy’s mother. Anne would have been nearly eighteen years old, with the dark hair and aristocratic beauty that Darcy inherited. He remembered her as a sweet and happy woman, gentle with the children and always deferring to her husband, often laughing as she hugged her son to her. Her warm eyes were softer and kinder than Catherine’s.
To the left of Catherine stood his father, also with dark hair and piercing blue eyes, an incredibly good-looking young Corinthian, just eleven months Catherine’s junior. Fitzwilliam swelled with pride at the sight, wished he could have known him in his wild youth. He was ridiculously proud of this father, who looked high-spirited and eager to take on the world. The three had been close in age but vastly different in temperaments.
This trio before him were links in a chain that reached as far back as the Conqueror, links in a chain of which he was a part, taking it into the future through his children and their children.
Of a sudden, he felt very proud and very humbled.
Amanda entered quietly, relief at the sight of him flooding through her—his size, his broad chest and shoulders always making her pulse quicken. The thought struck the moment she saw him, and her heart and her path were clear as glass before her. “’Whither thou goest, I shall go, where thou lodgest, I shall lodge, thy people shall be my people, thy God my God,’” she whispered, causing him to turn.
“Hello,” she said simply.
He nodded, the sudden boulder in his throat impeding his speech.
“I was expecting you to come earlier.” He was pale and looked slightly ill. “Are you all right, Richard?”
“Yes.” His voice cracked, and he cleared his throat. His first sight of her had robbed him of breath. His second had almost robbed him of speech. She looked gloriously disheveled. In fact, she had hurried downstairs without her robe, not even taking time for slippers. It was only moments before that she had finally fallen asleep, exhausted and depressed, giving up on his ever coming over that evening even as Lady Catherine had assured her of his continued love for her.
“I am sorry to have come so late,” he finally said, and then inhaled deeply. “I’ve been visiting with the peer, obviously drinking a bit, also. He possesses some extraordinarily powerful whiskey.” She looked gorgeous as she pushed back the cascade of blonde hair from over her face, a face which was still flushed from sleep. He could see the imprint of the pillow wrinkles on her cheeks. “Of course, what I call whiskey, he calls Irish holy water.”
Amanda laughed rather over brightly and nodded, crossing her arms over her chest to fend off the cold. She wished she had her slippers nearby.
“Oh, for heaven’s sake.” The faintly exasperated voice seemed to come from nowhere.
Incredibly, Fitzwilliam could hear his aunt muttering behind the closed door to the hallway. He turned his head to listen.
“Catherine, is that you?” The muttering stopped. There was silence.
He could hear the shuffling of feet behind the door.
“Did I say that out loud, Jamison?”
“Yes, madam.”
“Merde.”
Fitzwilliam exhaled in exasperation. “Aunt Catherine, is that you?” he called again, louder.
After several seconds, the voice from nowhere spoke. “No.”
He walked over to the door and snatched it open. Amanda watched as he leaned his body into the doorway. “Could you please afford us some slight privacy?” he asked in a respectful but strained voice.
“Whatever do you mean? I am merely standing here. It’s nothing to do with you. Please stand back. I need my rest. Close the door. I am very old and tired. I have a bad heart. For heaven’s sake, Richard, move your hand! You are letting out the heat. I am not made of money, you know! Watch your feet.” With that, the door was snapped shut in his face.
He turned toward Amanda and shook his head. “Now, where was I?” he asked absently.
“You weren’t anywhere that I could tell,” said the mysterious voice that was not behind the door.
“Aunt Catherine!!”
Amanda’s hand pressed over her mouth as they both grinned. Trying hard not to laugh, Fitzwilliam grumbled with his amusement.
“Aunt Catherine!” he commanded. “Stop your eavesdropping and go to bed! You are old and tired, remember?”
“I am not eavesdropping, young man.” The muffled voice managed to sound very insulted. “I am merely standing here, in my own home, by my table, which…” There was a loud crash and thud, followed by a muffled scream.
Fitzwilliam put up one finger and walked to the door, opening it.
“Are you all right?” he asked.
“Yes, of course I am, but I fail to understand from where that table came. Jamison?”
“France, madam,” he replied.
“Merciful heavens, I am perfectly aware of that! I mean now, Jamison. When was it placed here?!” Her voice was very agitated.
“I believe that would be thirty-four years ago, madam.”
Fitzwilliam looked back at Amanda and rolled his eyes, after which his head disappeared again into the open doorway.
“Will you please go away?” he asked. “I am begging you, Aunt. If I pay you something, some unbelievably large amount, will you leave us? Please? Allow me some small privacy for this, please.”
When he began closing the door, it was pushed open again. A white, blue-veined hand was the only thing visible as it reached up to his hair and patted it down.
“Did you just spit on your hand before you patted down my hair?” he asked indignantly.
“Oh, I did no such thing. Now be still. Of all the rude, impertinent accusations to make! Bend down lower. I will have you know that members of the aristocracy do not have ‘spit’ as you crudely refer to it, young man. We do not acknowledge saliva in any form. Straighten your collar. There, you look nearly presentable.” She grumbled in aggravation, “Do you even own a brush?” Grabbing his chin, she brusquely turned his face from side to side. “For heaven’s sake, Richard, what did you use to shave—a shovel?”
“Leave now, Catherine, and I may spare your life.” There was a moment of quiet from behind the door. “Go, woman! I intend to begin ravishing my wife shortly; however, I will not even consider it before I see that little dwarflike body of yours waddling down this corridor! Away with you! Shoo!”
“Oh, all right!” she finally capitulated. “By the way, mon chou, I should tell you that when you two finally get around to reconciling and retire upstairs, Amanda is occupying the large blue suite down the east corridor, not your usual bachelor room at the end of the west corridor.” She reached up to kiss his offered cheek then turned on her heels to leave. “You have finally earned an upgrade in accommodations, Richard. Well done, you.”