Mr. Darcy Takes a Wife (64 page)

Happy to rid the room of the lingering sound of the name “Charles,” Elizabeth told her, “My sister’s name is Mary.”

But their discourse was abbreviated, for when the young woman managed a smile at the coincidence, she was excited into a fit of coughing. That reminded Elizabeth how small the room and how dense the contamination of the air. Knowing they must take leave, not only in defence of their health, but so as not to prolong a grievous farewell, Elizabeth bid Mary adieu.

Careful not to employ past-tense, she said, “I shall make certain he knows how much his mother loves him.”

Mary wiped tears away with the back of her hand and tried to smile, but Elizabeth was too overcome with grief upon her behalf to return it. Business taken care of, Mary’s mother herded Elizabeth back out the door, but at the doorway Elizabeth stopped. Impulsively, she pulled both her earrings free and put them upon the table by Mary’s bed. She feared it could have been construed as a crass gesture, buying a baby if you will, but the look upon Mary’s face was one of gratitude not offence. Albeit they were modest by Darcy standards (and once belonged to Darcy’s grandmother), the earrings were worth a great deal. They could provide for a family for a long time. And they were the last things the baby’s mother saw him touch.

Having been contemptuous of her morals at one time, Elizabeth could no longer. The family’s destitution was obvious. Elizabeth could not say with absolute certainty that had their positions been reversed she would have lived with more circumspection. The only contempt she felt at that moment was for Bingley. If he had given the woman and baby any support, it was niggardly indeed.

Elizabeth relinquished the baby to Anne’s needy hands and as mightily as she tried not, tears burned her eyes. She blinked them back and reminded herself that it was a kindness to Mary for her not to worry for her child. Nevertheless, she entered the carriage not unburdened, for the ache of the loss of a child was one with which she was all too familiar.

Once upon their way, Elizabeth chanced to look upon Alexander’s face (already the detested appellation of Charles was forgotten) more fully than she could in the darkened cottage. The bright daylight revealed him to be blonde, but of darker colour than Jane’s children. If there was a Bingley family resemblance, it was not profound. Hence, she breathed a small sigh of relief. Any scandal resulting from this entire event at least would not be embarrassingly overt.

The boy looked healthy, but sat very still on Anne’s lap with a lost look upon his face. Elizabeth put out her hands, waggling her fingers and smiling encouragement for him to come to her. He sat determinedly sucking on his two middle fingers and did not make a decision at first. Thereupon, as if he had taken her due, he slowly reached out. She took him upon her lap and kissed the top of his head. It would be good to have a baby upon whom to shower attention and love. At least this chance-bairn would have a home, she told herself, and endeavoured not to think about the lot fate drew for poor John Christie.

Elizabeth expected Jane to be waiting in the vestibule when they returned, but she was not. Hence, Elizabeth sent Mrs. Reynolds to find her whilst she and Anne took the baby up to the nursery.

Mrs. Reynolds search was to be fruitless, for there in the nursery sat Jane anxiously fingering a tiny lace bonnet. Looking neither at Elizabeth nor Anne, Jane’s eyes lit upon the baby and, arms extended in acceptance, went directly to him. With an instinct known only to babies, Alexander immediately reached out for Jane, whose countenance reflected an expression of anguished love that was difficult to witness.

Elizabeth and Anne quietly left Jane to have her time with Charles Bingley’s son without benefit of audience.

* * *

Late that day, a rider coming fast was called. Before the estafette could pull his horse to a lathered, skidding stop, Elizabeth met him in the courtyard. The express was from Mr. Darcy and was characteristically brief. He had found a ship, and by the time Elizabeth received the information, would have set sail. That he was upon a ship bound for hostilities was trepidation enough. However, Bingley returned from Portsmouth with the news of neither time nor place but that the Barrett was one of the ships shot from the water by French cannons. Thitherward, the house of Pemberley was shrouded with an impenetrable foreboding.

Elizabeth drew her shawl about her, set her jaw and waited.

The Barrett’s outward-bound voyage was uneventful except for briefly becoming entangled in an unusual influx of sea-wrack. The only true engagement with the enemy was upon the Barrett’s approach to land, necessitating the dodging of a bombardment of cannon fire from French ships anchored along the shore.

It had taken six hours and the cover of darkness to find even so dangerous a place to dock as they had north of Calais. As chancy as was their landing, had Darcy known the Barrett’s fate upon its return it would have been no great surprise. Their disembarkation was no more expeditious than a regiment of untrained infantrymen could manage. Darcy edged around the chaos, hoping to find a horse to buy or hire before it was conscripted into military service. The possibility that a horse lurked about seemed unlikely. There was but a small fishing village adjacent to the wharf, quite empty of animals save for a few bleating goats. Determined to find some sort of transportation, he walked up the slight incline that led away from the hubbub of the men and ship. Once cresting the hill, he heard the unmistakable nicker of a horse.

That propitious sound granted him renewed gratitude that if he had to chase Georgiana to the ends of the earth, it was with his hearing intact. Whilst he took the time to give that thanks, he included one, too, for the fortuitous stabling of a horse. (Conducting his search for Georgiana upon foot would be neither efficient nor agreeable.) He rapped upon the door of the nearest house, rousing the owner from his slumber. The man (apparently slumbering through a rather noisy enemy invasion) was unhappy to be kindled from his bed and issued several colourful Gallic curses as he bumped into furniture upon his trip to see who incited such a late-night disturbance. Flinging back the door, he hurled a few more invectives in Darcy’s direction for good measure.

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.