Jane Austen's Pride & Prejudice Sequel Bundle: 3 Reader Favorites (94 page)

Adopting a deliberately hoarse voice (hoping, ultimately in folly, to disguise the imperfection of his French), Darcy ignored the insults and inquired politely as to the possibility of buying his horse. With little civility, the man shook his head in non-comprehension and slammed the door shut in his face. In the hope that the man was obtuse from somnolence rather than misunderstanding his deplorable French, Darcy decided not to risk conversing in a language foreign to him again. Thereupon, he employed the time-honoured signal of a willingness to do business and jingled a bag of gold coins, then waited. Odd how such a timid sound could be heard from such seemingly impenetrable depths. The door was reopened forthwith by the recently irate man, his humour much improved.

“
Oui! Oui! Un cheval! J’ai un bon cheval! Bon marché
!”

With all due haste, the man showed him to
le bon cheval
, which was indefensibly sway-backed. But as his stirrups did not drag the ground, Darcy tried not to be unduly critical of the poor nag’s confirmation. The horse, quite unawares of his less than
impressive configuration, pranced about as if he was taking a lap at Ascot, necessitating Darcy to remind him otherwise with a crop. They took to the road a little gingerly, Darcy attempting to rein his steed into some sort of identifiable gait whilst hoping most fervently the man from whom he bought the horse was indeed its owner.

His destination was Lille. As de Bourghs and D’arcys, an arm of Darcy’s family had lived and prospered in Normandy since the Hundred Years War. Because of political upheaval, he had not visited his French relations since he graduated from Cambridge and set out upon his grand tour. He and Fitzwilliam had travelled there a decade before, for war or no war, an English gentleman worthy of the name was not properly turned out into society until he had visited the continent.

At Darcy’s father’s specific request, the young men had spent a fortnight under the auspices of their cousin, Viscount Charles Roux. Roux (a misnomer of a surname, for his forefathers may have been, but Roux was not red-headed) and Darcy’s father had been close friends until the revolution forced the Roux family into hiding. When the
auto-da-fe
slowed to a mere trickle, Roux wasted little time in reclaiming his villa and reinstating himself and his family to the sumptuous lifestyle they had previously enjoyed. Though not the highest of station, Roux was closer in proximity than blood to those relatives the Darcys had in France and that served Darcy’s purpose this trip. He sought his uncle out for convenience, not conviviality.

Upon seeing the
Chateau de Roux
again after its housing successively a monastery, a brothel, and several garrisons, Darcy saw the lovely mansion had altered but little. The place may have been abused, but it had recovered its previous splendour with remarkable rapidity. He forsook his animal at the gate and when he gave his name (presenting a card seemed superfluous) the servant went scurrying into the house. Immediately, and with arms upraised and extended in effusive greeting, came Roux himself. Waving aside Darcy’s formal bow, he drew him into an ursine hug, enthusiastically (and wetly) kissing him upon both cheeks.

This osculation was a little awkward, for Roux was the better part of a foot shorter than Darcy. Nothing about the man, as it happened, suggested their shared heredity, for Roux was not only of limited height, but also of short legs and large head, not unlike a particularly elegant dwarf. Though he moved with grace, his physique suggested a life of epicurean overindulgence.

As if in corroboration of that assumption, Roux settled them in with a carafe of wine and splashed a generous portion of burgundy into Darcy’s glass.

“To your good health,” toasted Roux.

“
A votre sante
.”

Even oiled by spirits, their conversation began a little stilted. This, not because of the company, but because, howbeit Roux spoke nearly flawless English, Darcy insisted upon conversing in French. (His attempted exchange with the man with the horse told him he needed to practise. If he were to stumble in French, he would rather it be with Roux and not when lives were at stake.) Offering only that Fitzwilliam had arrived ahead of himself ready for battle, Darcy unbosomed as little else as possible of his own reason for being there. (He was astute enough to offer some information, if only in politeness of seeking
it.) What he sought to learn of the coming clash was in regard to time and place (the British officers aboard the
Barrett
had been no better informed than he was). He hoped to hear the battle was not imminent, for he needed time to locate the commanders and their hospitals to search for Georgiana. He was disappointed.

Roux told him, “The Prussians are just north-east of here.
Le Fou Emperour
is in Paris amassing what French troops are left. Word is rampant that the Belgian levies are untrained.
Nouveaux
. Napoleon’s soldiers are not many in number, but they are veterans of many conflicts and fiercely loyal to him.”

Howbeit that was not a great surprise, it was yet unsettling to hear. Thus, Darcy changed the discourse. He looked about his opulent surroundings.

“I am happy to see you and your household were spared vengeance.”

“Oh that,” Roux said, dismissing the carnage of beheadings with a graceful wave of the hand. “Revolution is simply another word for readjustment. This, a little violent of course, but nothing catastrophic.”

Darcy thought it probable that those who met the guillotine might well consider it catastrophic and wondered how his cousin could remain so unflappable in the bedlam of relentless insurrection and anarchy. He could only attribute Roux’s attitude to irrepressible Gallic forbearance and two decades of getting used to it.

Recognising Darcy’s confoundment, his cousin explained, “We are happily some distance from Paris. People here believe themselves of Flanders or France as the situation warrants. And fortunately, we have only a few relatives amongst the Bourbons. Just enough to favour us if they are in rule and few enough to ignore if they are not.”

“I was unaware we had any connexion at all.”

Roux said, “My mother’s sister bore a child by a Bourbon. But it was not
de consentement
.”

Aghast, Darcy demanded clarification, “Pray, I do not take your meaning. Are you saying that a member of the royal household violated her?”

“She was a lovely woman, but a little indiscriminate with her affection,” said Roux. “I think the accusation could be no greater than…‘surprised.’”

Roux guffawed at his own story, and although Darcy did not find the anecdote particularly amusing, he smiled almost as if he did. If ever he were to serve hypocrisy, he reasoned, this was the single time he would forgive himself. He wanted and needed Roux’s good graces. They talked into the small hours of the night, Darcy gleaning bits of political gossip amidst Roux’s witty quips and barbs. Finally, eighteen hours in the saddle and two days without sleep overcame him. He made his apologies and fell into bed fully clothed.

The next morning rose with more dispatch than did Darcy and he chastised himself when he saw it would be noon before he could be upon his way. However, when he readied to leave, Roux insisted upon fitting him with a rather fine dun. As that would certainly make his travel to Brussels all the better for not having to dicker with his horse over a vacillating lead, he thanked him prodigiously.

Albeit he carried with him only a single satchel, it was cumbersome on horseback and Darcy left it with Roux, wrapping up only a change of shirt and two miniatures (one of Elizabeth and one he had brought of Georgiana to prod faulty memories as he
sought her) before tying the roll to his saddle. With that, he donned the sword he rarely wore and stowed his pistol in his waistband. Thereupon, with a look of resolve that gave Roux pause, he mounted his horse and headed east.

He had not expected his odyssey to be easy. And that expectation was not denied that day nor for weeks after. It became a long and frustratingly fruitless search. Regiments were pouring into Brussels heavy with artillery. Dozens of cavalry companies had been lent to the Prussians and Dutch-Belgium commanders. Fitzwilliam’s regiment had been divided, but no muster carried names, only a list of units. Individual rosters were with each sergeant-major. Even more frustrating, all hospital corps were stalled en route, no one much of a mind to worry about where they were until actual casualties occurred. He was stymied at every turn.

By the first of June, word had reached the British that Napoleon was preparing to march northward. It was then that word reached Darcy from one of the four men he had searching for Georgiana that she had been positively identified as boarding a troop ship for France. As they had suspicioned, she had obtained passage with a hospital corps. The account he received told that she had not used her real name, but it was most certainly Georgiana. She had claimed to be the wife of an officer. If he believed she would have been thwarted in her quest of hospital duty, Darcy saw he had underestimated his sister. He had no notion of whether she was travelling under an assumed name or if she truly was the wife of an officer. Regardless of her circumstance, if he could not find her before war commenced, he feared he would not be able to find her at all.

M
ajor George Wickham’s colonel had advanced him to a new regiment. Reassignment without demotion usually meant advancement in the military. This was true particularly during wartime, when careers were made upon one good skirmish. Exhausting all evasive action, Wickham had resigned himself to assignment
outre-mer
and thought a few medals would garnish his uniform quite nicely. A quiet adjutant position, possibly doing correspondence for his commanding officer in Brussels, would be no strain upon his nerves. Brussels in the spring was said to be lovely.

But Major Wickham had never been less pleased. Albeit, in all good conscience, even he should not have been surprised. For the colonel reassigning him was also a cuckolded husband—cuckolded by Major Wickham—and the said same major found his newly reassigned person right in the midst of a most distressing battlefield.