Chapter Text
ACT I
London, Fall 1815.
Colonel Fitzwilliam had been repatriated to England after the battle of Toulouse where a musket ball to the thigh left him in such agony that continuing to command his men was impossible. After a long and miserable journey home, he spent months in convalescence at Highmere Park attended by the family physician and an experienced nurse whose dedication he never quite forgot.
She was most conscientious, insisting that his wound demanded daily cleansing and that the stiffness in his legs must be rubbed away.
For this, of course, he was obliged to strip rather more than he suspected was strictly necessary, but he was not a man to complain when a lady applied herself with such earnest devotion.
Indeed, each time her diligent hands set to work, he found himself experiencing a rather different sort of circulation. He might not have been able to rise from bed, but under her care he had little difficulty rising in other respects.
If she erred in her duty, it was only in attending rather too thoroughly to the parts of him that were not injured.
Once freed from duty and able to limp about with a walking stick, the colonel proved himself as reckless and dissolute in civil life as he had been dependable and honourable in service of His Majesty.
In the army, he was celebrated for his discipline of iron and courage but in the drawing rooms of Mayfair? Quite another story.
Scarcely a month had passed after his return to London before the social papers caught the scent of indiscretions, their tireless correspondents prying for whispers in every corner of town. At last, the inevitable appeared in print: a letter, most indignant in tone, from a betrayed husband followed by the editor’s reply.
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To the Editor
Sir,
It is my unhappy duty to inform you of a calamity which, I fear, may soon befall every household in London if it is not checked at once.
I speak of a certain officer, lately returned from the Peninsula, who has continued his campaigning in quarters most unbecoming, namely, my own marital bed.
As is my custom, I retired early, but was roused in the night by noises most irregular issuing from my wife’s chamber.
Imagining it the work of burglars and fearing she was in danger, I seized a firebrand and hurried to her aid.
To my eternal mortification, I discovered her in a state of undress I dare not put to paper and more confounding still,
in a condition one might describe as alarming bliss as if she had been visited by the holy spirit itself.
The sight was so extraordinary that for a moment I thought her seized by some medical fit and rushed to the window to draw in fresh air,
only to behold, to my horror, the officer himself departing my house upon his menacing walking stick.
In that instant, the truth dawned upon me: my wife had been subjected to nothing less than a siege of the most indecent sort, conducted under my very nose!
His very presence, Sir, has proven to be a dangerous form of warfare.
She, who once listened with rapture to my discourses on the turnip harvest, now prefers to prattle on about “noble wounds” and “courageous officers.”
She even enquired, most alarmingly, whether I had considered acquiring a few scars.
If this state of affairs continues, no home will be safe from his attentions. I beg you, Sir, exert your influence to have this conquering hero posted to some remote embassy,
ideally in a colony with no women at all or perhaps some lonely rock in the Atlantic, where he may cease to endanger the peace of husbands.
I remain, in deepest indignation,
A Very Distressed Husband
Editor’s Reply
We thank our correspondent, A Very Distressed Husband, for his spirited letter.
It is a rare delight to receive a complaint so eloquently phrased, and we assure him that the gravest attention has been given to his lamentations.
Alas, the officer in question (whom we shall not name) conducts his campaigns with such irresistible charm and, we are compelled to note,
such undisputable fashionable figure,that even the sternest critics find themselves conquered.
As for your wife’s condition of “alarming bliss,” there are reports suggesting that a certain fever is in circulation this season which produces precisely the symptoms you describe
though curiously only when this officer of high command is present.
Regarding your lady’s sudden fascination with “noble wounds,” we advise you not to despair.
A husband need not win a battle to acquire the marks of one.
In a show of good faith, you might contrive a minor shaving mishap, or at the very least present a chin grazed by a vindictive rosebush.
Such gestures, though modest, may restore a measure of your wife’s admiration for turnip harvest.
In short: London’s hearts remain very much under siege, and it must be confessed the officer wages his war with uncommon style.
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Darcy, storming into White’s, flung the offending paper upon the table
“Julian, this! This disgrace has your name written all over it.”
Julian, sprawled comfortably in a chair with his walking stick next to him and a glass of port in hand, just grinned.
“Not me, cousin. You will observe they had the delicacy to leave me anonymous. ‘A certain officer of high command’ could be anyone. Could be Wellington himself, for all they know.”
“Julian, you have made a spectacle of yourself. Again.”
“Someone else has made a spectacle of me. I only supplied the material.”
“And I had hoped that command might have taught you a shred of responsibility and perhaps even a glimmer of honour!”
“I assure you, my conduct is entirely honourable. All I do is render service where service is required. Think of me as a humble servant to those poor ladies whose husbands have proved unequal to the task.”
“You dare to speak of your debauchery as being of service?”
“Why not? The army taught me nothing if not the value of service. I merely continue my vocation.”
Darcy slammed his hand against the table. “To call yourself a humble servant while you trample on the sanctity of marriage—”
“Trample? Never. I merely oblige. And I daresay, it is most appreciated.”
“One day, your reckless behaviour will land you in a snare from which neither laughter nor family will be able to free you.”
“Then let it be a pretty snare then, with bright eyes and a mischievous smile.”
After his complete recovery, Julian was making up for lost time, indulging in the many pleasures London could provide a young, hot-blooded aristocrat too long exiled.
Soon enough, a few more timely rescues of matrons in most urgent distress and it was whispered that his reputation for endurance which carried him through long campaigns was matched only by his stamina in the boudoir.
While professing outrage in public, ladies unburden themselves with far less restraint at their private gatherings where no men intruded and speculation about the Colonel’s vigor flowed as freely as the ratafia.
And then came a private soirée when one woman, who had too much to drink, silenced them all with four words: “I can tell you.”
She claimed, though of course she would never name names, that a certain indiscreet lady had confided the Colonel had not merely lived up to his reputation but exceeded it, returning to the field six times before dawn, each bout as vigorous as the last. And as if the feat itself were not shocking enough, she swore the servants heard everything. One footman dropped an entire tray of glasses when he realised what he was hearing, while the chambermaid, scarlet from ear to ear, vowed she would never again be able to look the Colonel in the eye.
One dowager swooned outright at the implications of such vitality, while another declared that such excess could not possibly be good for his constitution or that of any lady brave enough to receive his attentions.
Undeterred, the speaker pressed on, cataloguing him as though she were a horse dealer appraising a stallion. His chest, she reported, was broad and powerful, his arms spoke of strength and his flanks as firm as any thoroughbred.
But it was when she turned her attention to his lower quarters that several ladies reached for their fans. His thighs, she declared, were the true engines of his staying power, capable of maintaining rhythm and drive through even the most demanding maneuvers.
By now the company was in tatters. Then came the final blow.
“And as for the rest of him, ladies—” she let the pause hang until they all leaned forward, “Why, if the French had ever glimpsed the Colonel in full undress, they would have laid down their arms at once, recognizing themselves hopelessly outgunned.”
The drawing room erupted into total chaos.
One lady collapsed onto the nearest sofa in a dramatic swoon, another made a great show of rising to leave in moral outrage but found herself sinking back down, too stunned to actually depart. One elderly matron attempted to restore order by crying, "We must never repeat this scandalous talk—never!"—which of course guaranteed that every woman present would repeat it.
The hostess frantically rang for smelling salts. "Surely you exaggerate," she whispered, her eyes suggesting she hoped otherwise.
The tale had grown so ludicrous after each retelling that by week's end, half of London's polite society was convinced the Colonel was not merely a man at all but some mythical creature.
There were stories enough.
It seemed Julian’s allure only grew with every supposed indiscretion. The ton preferred him a little scandalous as virtue made for very dull conversation. After all, aristocratic men were notorious for their diversions and Julian was indeed—as an officer of high rank with a pedigree—a fashionable rake.
What Darcy deplored, society devoured as amusement. And his cousin, for all his spotless reputation was an admired figure but never adored.
Within a few more months, the officer-whose-name-was-never-quite-printed had become the darling subject of every social column in London. His character fuelled gossip of the most fantastic nature until he inspired equal measures of alarm and admiration.