Jane Austen's Pride & Prejudice Sequel Bundle: 3 Reader Favorites (91 page)

It was a camouflaged troop ship. The hull was undoubtedly filled with soldiers. The single fortune that young lad could count was that he was up on deck and not in its squalid hold. As that was not his predicament, Darcy, however, held a single hope— that the forty miles across the Channel would be only that long.

As their ship cut its inky path, he turned his face toward the blackness of the water once again. There had been a time when he would have thought it beneath his company to speak to a seasick knave. Though it was a bust, he had tried. Some ventures, he concluded, brought all humankind to parity.

His countenance toward France, again he began to chant, “
Bonjour. Comment allezvous? S’il vous plait. Je m’appelle Monsieur D’arcy
.”

W
ith Darcy already on his way to France, John and Georgiana, even with a day’s head start, were yet in Portsmouth. Edward Hardin had been correct, John did intend to join the army in the only capacity he could, as an infantryman. Conscription had been in progress for some months, but John had drawn a high lottery number. It was no feat to find a Derbyshire boy of single digit luck who was not yet prepared to repair from his home and a trade was made, thus ensuring John of a legitimate uniform.

Once in Portsmouth, they had to wait for a full contingent of their county levy to sail. (Some were not as anxious as others to fight and a little foot dragging did occur.) John’s plan had been in place long before he confronted Mr. Darcy the morning before at Pemberley. His resentment had been building daily and exponentially since he heard Mrs. Hardin and her sister talk about the bastard child that Mr. Darcy had sired. That gentleman’s perceived defilement of innocent girls festered in John’s mind until his resentment mutated into absolute loathing. He wanted to render Mr. Darcy unable to beget another baby to abandon. He wanted Mr. Darcy dead.

For weeks he struggled unsuccessfully with just how to avenge, not only his mother, but all the many women Mr. Darcy had ruined (and infidelity to Mrs. Darcy as well). Finally, he asked himself what good Colonel Fitzwilliam would do in the face of such outrage.

The answer was obvious. Colonel Fitzwilliam would have challenged Mr. Darcy to a duel. Of course, Colonel Fitzwilliam had quite the sword for that. It was perchance fortuitous that weapon was denied John. For not only did he have little notion how to use a sabre, save for attempting to run one’s opponent through, he had little idea of how to conduct a duel in the first place. A great deal of ritual and decorum was involved. He was quite certain he had heard the event had to be endured with both contestants’ chests bared to prove they harboured no armour. Moreover, it was to commence with the slapping of the offender’s cheek with a pair of kid gloves. As it happened, John’s collar button was always undone in that he had no cravat to begin with, hence that requirement was of no bother. But not only was he not in possession
of a sword, he did not own a pair of gloves. Thus, he concluded a more efficient means of confronting Mr. Darcy must be found.

A duel of honour out of the question, the next surest way to exact his death was by gun. Regrettably, John had no more access to that than a sword. The only weapon available to him was a knife. (One of the few possessions he had brought with him to Pemberley, he had pilfered it from Archie Arbuthnot, who had pilfered it from some long-forgotten port.) He knew it would be dangerous, but, with righteousness upon his side, a knife would surely inflict a mortal wound. The only drawback to his plan was that there was nothing proverbial about stabbing a man. John cast that objection aside. He wanted Mr. Darcy dead, biblical retribution or not.

Once the deed was done, he intended to make his escape by changing his name and joining the army. With his experience, he hoped he would be assigned to the cavalry, if not to ride, at least to see to their horses. And in the heady fantasy that he had constructed of Mr. Darcy’s execution (he never once thought of it as murder) and his own escape, John was certain divine intervention would render him assigned to Fitzwilliam’s regiment. There, he would follow the colonel into glorious battle. (It did not occur to him that Fitzwilliam might not think kindly of the person who slew his cousin.)

But his plan was circumvented. That nettlesome little matter of actuality obtruded betwixt him and his mission.

When John hurled the accusation of paternity at him, Mr. Darcy’s face first reflected anger and incredulity. That was a considerable reward, but John could not quite muster his resolve for a
coup de grâce
. The notion of actually drawing blood was just too heinous. He had thrown down the knife that he intended to use to slay Mr. Darcy in disgust. Vengeance might not be exacted that day, but he vowed to himself that it would one day soon. As he stalked away burdened by his own lack of grit, at first he did not hear Mr. Darcy deny he was his father. Nor did he see the sympathy that overspread that man’s features as he did.

However, when he stopped and turned around, John saw it quite clearly. No other expression would have bade John accept the truth more earnestly. Immediately upon Mr. Darcy’s repudiation and his own realisation of its authenticity, John felt sick. Forthwith, an overwhelming bitterness overtook him. When he cursed Mr. Darcy, then everyone in general, it included himself.

His conviction that Mr. Darcy was his father had been so strong for so long, it was not easily abandoned. Nor was he anxious to liberate it. Injury is savoured more than most might be inclined to confess, in that injustice requires little of one save indignation. Fate requires a lengthy contemplation of philosophy.

Was he by nature disposed, John was hardly in contemplative humour. He should have been humiliated at such an embarrassing misapprehension. But whilst in such high dudgeon, there is little room for mortification. John’s version of objectivity rendered Mr. Darcy, if innocent of his mother’s particular defilement, certainly guilty of many others. Thus, though his father may have been technically rendered faceless, an anonym he was not. The begetter yet, and ever would be, conjured by John as an icon of Mr. Darcy.

With that understanding, John strode resolutely away, not once looking back. For there was one certainty. Even if his murderous scheme did not play out as he planned, it was nonetheless necessary to take leave of Pemberley forthwith. His meagre belongings had already been packed in anticipation of a felonious flight. (He thought it imprudent to ask for his knife back.)

He had a makeshift knapsack on his shoulder when he encountered Georgiana. Yet enraged, he stared at the ground and barely grunted in acknowledgement as he passed her. She called after him. The meanness of his spirit did not harbour pleasantries, thus he probably just stopped by rote when she asked where he was going. He told her where, but not the whole truth as to why. She asked him to wait, for she intended to take leave of Pemberley as well and bid him to drive her gig.

Initially he was reluctant, but he reconsidered. It was a long walk unto Portsmouth. Other than learning of a common interest in passage to France, he queried not.

Once at Portsmouth, they needed the gig only for some hasty cash. Georgiana and John conferred about what would be a good price. Neither had a notion of the monetary value of the rig, John, because he never had as much as a sovereign in his life, and Georgiana, because she never had as little. When they settled for two tenners with a beefy man (wearing a waistcoat that announced what he had had for dinner), Georgiana thought it a fine trade.

John, however, observed dourly, “That codger’s too jolly with the price. If yer donno leave ’em screamin’ they’re robbed, it weren’t a good bargain.”

Separate rooms were found over an alehouse near the Portsmouth harbour. Georgiana turned up her nose at the stench; to John it was not a novelty. Indeed, the clinking of mugs below them was the lullaby of his youth. They stayed close that next day, having exacted a promise from each other to board a ship together (this was in defence of Georgiana’s sensibility, not John’s). As he waited for his company to depart, she waited as well. The ship would carry medical personnel and Georgiana knew that would be the only way to find passage.

When it finally came time for her to apply, she was nervous at the deception and nearly gave up on the scheme. Yet, she persevered. The captain looked at her keenly. Howbeit she steadfastly claimed to be a nurse and wife of an officer, he was hesitant. His qualms, however, were overcome. Whilst feigning ignorance of military custom, Georgiana offered to pay for her passage. With two five-pound notes proffered upon her outstretched palm, her inexperience and marital status were of little importance.

For a young woman believed to be an innocent, Georgiana was not naïve. Once underway, the headiness of freedom made everyone giddy, but Georgiana was one of the few too excited to be seasick. Aligning herself with a hearty girl in the hospital corps, they gaily strolled the deck arm in arm. John, however, glowered at her oceanic savoirfaire from atop a pile of rigging. There, he and some other recruits huddled in a clump. That is, when they were not taking a turn visiting the rail to lose their dinner. So sick was John, he had not the wherewithal to check the crew for the likes of Archie Arbuthnot.

When land was found, it was rather precipitously (it was only a makeshift wharf), and those who had found their sea legs endeavoured to travel down the gangplank
with dignity. Those unrecovered from the crossing staggered ashore. A few of the less stalwart passengers threw themselves upon the seastrand and kissed dry land. John, who was not inclined to kiss any earth but England’s no matter how severe the trip, looked upon such doings disdainfully.

As it happens, disdain often dissolves in the harsh reality of cold, naked fear. John was handed a gun. From the precarious vantage of foreign soil, and holding a weapon he was to use to personally kill Nappy, John’s courage did not exactly collapse. But it did buckle ever so slightly. For he could not stop himself from recalling the stories about the Frogs he had been told as a child. They might not all be mindless, rug-chewing bogeyman, but John thought it probable far too many were suspect. Hence, being upon the same ground as the Frenchies was unnerving.

If morning saw him revisiting his childhood, the distribution of a uniform and his assignment to a company elevated him unto manhood by mid-morning. He had been disappointed that he was not given his uniform whilst yet in England. The powers that be, however, must have reasoned that they did not want to waste a uniform upon some soul that fell overboard during the trip.

He donned his uniform and, affecting a raffish swagger, looked about. Eyeing the other new recruits, he hoped he did not look half as green as they. Of course, this hope was negated each and every time he looked admiringly down at his new uniform and fingered the brass buttons (his uniform was missing only one, others did worse). Such a fine uniform was abundant compensation for the seasick voyage.

It boosted his morale as well to finally at least look like a Brother of the Blade. For upon the ship they had nothing to do but listen to tales of the trials of war. The stories he had heard in Derbyshire were triumphant. Those that were told shipboard by the veterans amongst them were just as vivid, but bloody. Visceral. Each one besting the last. There was no motive for the stories save frightening raw, young soldiers and of that, they were unconditionally successful. Tall stories or no, John thought far too many had a ring of truth. He would have congratulated the storytellers for their success at scaring the bejeezus out of him had he any humour left at all.