Mr. Darcy Takes a Wife (61 page)

He assured Elizabeth, “I do not mean to deny her decision of will, only to try to ease what way she has chosen. And see her safe.”

Elizabeth believed most profoundly, just as he adamantly denied it, that he did intend to deny Georgiana her will. Darcy would never stand by and let his sister run about the English countryside, or French for that matter, flaunting convention and risking ruin. Certainly not with a groom. Or even Mr. Howgrave. She was not certain he would not throttle the dim-witted Hinchcliffe. “Seeing her safe” meant different things to different people. Darcy’s “safe” was the severest of all.

One of his riders returned with word that Georgiana’s gig had been seen upon the road south toward Portsmouth. Until that moment, Elizabeth had somehow believed Georgiana’s disappearance was a fluke, a frivolity. She could no longer. If Georgiana did board a ship for the war, undoubtedly as a nurse, Elizabeth knew there was no concern too extreme, no fear for her safety too great. Darcy intended to embark upon her retrieval as quickly as his coach could be readied.

If John had entered the army and Georgiana had gone with him or after him, they would end up on the continent and in Napoleon’s path. If it happened, Darcy intended to find Georgiana and bring her home. War or no war.

Most men of Mr. Darcy’s rank would have enlisted an emissary to search for his sister. But, as Elizabeth had once enjoyed reminding herself, her husband’s personal courage was far greater than most men’s, both of rank and lesser. And as Elizabeth again repeated that proudly to herself, she hoped she could be forgiven for grousing about it as well. For if the army were endangered across the Channel, she wondered what chance lay for a lone Englishman, whatever his merit. That same danger, of course, was tenfold for Georgiana. Thus, Elizabeth could not truly expect Darcy not to seek her.

It was difficult not to be angry with Georgiana for endangering them both, for surely she should have known her brother would move heaven and earth to find her.

What was she thinking? Of course, the answer was that she was not thinking. She was in love. Although Elizabeth had not shared that conviction with Darcy, she was certain it correct. Had Georgiana gone to war upon some quest of salvation of the wounded masses, she might have hesitated to announce it in advance, but she would have left word. Only love, either unrequited or unacceptable, would have made her surreptitious.

Georgiana’s departure already a fait accompli, Darcy’s anticipated one loomed before Elizabeth like a gaping behemoth, for it was immediate. There was to be no private time to hold each other in close embrace before he left, no special caresses to remember, no words to comfort. She was to be bereft and alone at Pemberley whilst he went into a raging war to seek his sister.

His intention was to search for Georgiana, if not incognito, at least in stealth. The men he had sent in pursuit of her were withdrawn in favour of private agents gifted in the nuance of discretion. Darcy feared for Georgiana’s reputation, but also that word not spread more than it already had that she was alone and vulnerable. For if that be known, every scoundrel in England would have their nose to the ground seeking her trail as well. Hence, Darcy refused Elizabeth to accompany him. Not only had she asked, she had wheedled, beseeched, and deliberately wept.

Darcy was unmoved. He would not even consider it.

“I can travel with much greater dispatch alone, by horseback if necessary,” he had told her.

“I can ride horseback!” she answered petulantly knowing that was hardly the point.

He must go in stealth, alone, and unaided. And she must wait. Alone as well. Elizabeth did not argue when her tears could not move him (and chastised herself for resorting to such a feminine weapon); his resolve was in place and thus additional entreaties were quite useless. There were certain times, when he used a specific voice, that she knew her powers of persuasion had peaked.

His preparations were methodical and calm. So unruffled did he appear, so disciplined, it was forbidding. Had Elizabeth not been already in a state of profound fright, that alone might have daunted her witless. Thus, when his stoicism included a reminder of where his important papers were in the library and just what arrangements he had made for her were he to die, she did not hear him. The moment he spoke of the possibility of not returning, she ceased to listen and began to tremble.

Unlocking the top drawer of his writing table, he opened it and removed a gun. The very gun he had taught her to use upon the lawn. Holding it for her inspection, he showed her again how to cock it.

“Remember, pull it all the way back, Lizzy.” The hammer clicked twice.

No answer.

“Lizzy?” he turned.

In times of crisis, his decisive reserve had always paid him well, but that day it demanded Elizabeth weather a struggle to maintain her composure. This was not lost upon his attention and it wrested him from the orderly delineation of details.

He carefully put the gun back in the drawer and closed it. Thereupon, he rose and drew her to his chest.

“Do not despair, Lizzy. These are but precautions. To ease my mind. Will you not allow me this?”

Because he caressed her neck reassuringly, she obediently nodded. It was with reluctance, but she did nod her concurrence. She understood her duty. If she could not accompany him, she would find the benevolence to ease his way. A wife must not make her husband’s tasks more arduous than necessary. One must acquiesce happily. Dutifully. Suddenly, she tore herself from his embrace and, with all the strength she could muster, struck him across the face. His look of stunned hurt incited her to slap him again. She brought her hand back a third time, but he grasped her wrists and drew her into his arms to soothe her. Her strength spent in a fit of wretchedness, she harmlessly pounded his shoulders with impotent fists and might have fallen to the floor had he not held her so tightly.

“Pray, do not leave me,” she wailed desperately. “Please do not. Take me with you! I shall be no trouble. I shall not complain. Please,” she begged, “take me with you for I cannot bear for you to leave me, for I know I shall never see you again.”

He held her face in his hands and looked upon her so long and so deeply that she began to cry anew.

But he said simply, “Help me bear to go, Lizzy.”

Slowly, they slid in a heap upon the floor. The intimacy they had not had time for was found there upon the carpet, but not by kiss or embrace. She cupped his face in her hand and he kissed her palm. They sat thus for only a very few moments. In that time, Elizabeth realised she had not thought to write him a letter. It seemed an insurmountable oversight. She might have favoured hiding one in his trunk, reminding him of all the ways she loved him. It would have been lengthy.

The coach was called ready. They rose to go outside. Elizabeth realised there was not another word to be spoken.

By the time they reached the portico, they had both adopted their appropriately dispassionate masks. She stood aside as he, ever methodical, checked the horses one by one. When the task was compleated, he turned his attention to his trip and she saw upon his face the look of determination she had seen many times before.

Turning to her in reassurance, he said, “I shall be back before you realise me gone.”

He kissed her once upon the lips. She grasped his lapel as she returned it, then held on, pretending to straighten his jacket. Thereupon, she made her hands drop from him. It was the most difficult task she had ever asked of herself. He kissed her once again, took hold of the grip to step into the coach, turned and looked directly at her.

She mouthed the words, “I love you.”

He wordlessly said, “I know.”

Then, he pulled himself into the carriage and the door slammed shut. As Elizabeth watched his coach take the gravel lane away from Pemberley, she wondered was she right not to tell him before he left the one thing that might have made him stay.

No, she thought and shook her head imperceptibly but to herself. She could not put the burden of decision upon him: should he save his sister or remain with his wife? His wife, who was quite certain that she was again with child.

Fitzwilliam’s regiment gathered at Portsmouth. General conscripts were amassing there also. And for once, the usual military “decision by absurdity” had a favourable outcome for at least one man.

To have the army travel south half the length of England to take leave by ship to travel half the length of England north by way of the Strait of Dover made little practical sense for the army. However, it certainly made Darcy’s trip more expeditious.

He headed his coach directly south-east to Dover.

* * *

So relentlessly did the hooves of his four matched horses pound the road, it appeared they were trailed by a tornadic tail of dust. The beauty of the team was indisputable. But they had been bred for stamina as well. In another circumstance the endurance of his horses, whose lineage he had carefully nurtured, would have been a substantial point of pride for horse-conscious Mr. Darcy. However, the very reason their fortitude was so critical at that moment kept him from giving any thought to self-congratulations.

His sister had already spent one night from beneath the shelter of her home, he dared not imagine in what manner. As he made haste, Darcy fingered the letter of credit in his waistband and fretted he had not taken the time to inventory Georgiana’s jewellery. When they had taken measure of her room, they searched for nothing other than motive. A bijouterie had been evident, but she could easily have taken a few pieces of jewellery with her. Several were worth the proverbial king’s ransom. Clearly, a single stone would fund whatever design she sought. Initially he had worried that she would be taken advantage of because of her impoverished flight. Thereupon, he commenced to fear quite the opposite.

It was an embarrassing admission, but he had to concede that his fragile sister had totally flummoxed him. Involuntarily, he shook his head in renewed appreciation of the sheer impertinence of her daring. When she was recovered, he vowed he would not make the error of underestimating her again.

Amongst his many concessions, he refused to acknowledge that Elizabeth’s caution against thwarting Georgiana’s many pursuits was providential. (In return, she chose not to recollect his adamancy that untethered enthusiasms resulted in either judgemental anarchy or fainting fits.) He had always conceded the fact of Georgiana’s keen mind, but an imaginative sensibility meant to him that she might truly be lured to seek adventure.

“If adventure was what she sought, why could she not have travelled to Greece to sketch the ruins as do other young artistically disposed gentlewomen?” he groused to himself (contrition evidently not giving him leave to accept the probability that he would have faulted Greece for her as well).

In self-righteous defence of his implacability, he reminded himself that Georgiana had a literary career. He had not denied her that. He had not liked it, but he had not denied it. His sister had family, position, and she was published. What more could a young woman desire that she would have to go off in the most imprudent manner…

The answer to that silent harrumph was quite obvious and he wisely endeavoured to draw his thoughts elsewhere. But to little avail, for he could do nothing but chastise himself for his lack of brotherly attention. Something nagged her so fiercely that she had taken a drastic and injudicious measure. He realised quite clearly that he had been far too obsessed with his own quandaries to see hers. Independently from Elizabeth, Darcy had ultimately reached much the same conclusion as had she. As much as he would have liked to believe it, he thought it quite unlikely his sister would take leave clandestinely only to share her meagre nursing skills with the British army. But she might use them as a means to reach someone in the British army.

If those previously identified unacceptable romances (the groom, Howgrave, Hinchcliffe) left him feeling decidedly uneasy, those of which he had not yet thought worried him even more. A young woman of wealth in her own right, wealth of thirty thousand pounds, was ten times that which would normally tempt the least avaricious of blackguards. The more he considered his sister’s situation, the more fearful for her he became.

Fitzwilliam was Georgiana’s second guardian and there were few others with whom Darcy would confide his sister’s flight. Confidentiality of Georgiana’s decidedly unguarded act was foremost in his mind. Protection of their standing was imperative. He would have to tread carefully. If he were successful, he would return her to Pemberley unsoiled in deed, and if at all possible, in repute as well.

In the hope that Fitzwilliam’s ship was delayed at Portsmouth, Darcy had sent off a messenger to warn him of Georgiana’s disappearance. If he was not reached in time there, most ships were stopping at Dover to take on more provisions. Darcy intended to intercept him and seek his counsel. For at that moment, Fitzwilliam was Darcy’s most trusted ally in finding Georgiana.

If he missed Fitzwilliam at Dover, a brief but profitable conference with Bingley before he left gave Darcy the name of a specific merchantman for him to board to make the crossing. Bingley’s good authority advised the ship would not be seized. That particular captain could provide a licence or not, as each situation demanded. The French demanded a licence, the British would confiscate the ship was one presented. In such times as these, ambiguity was all.

To take leave of England would be a drastic measure, and hope played far too prominent a role in the outcome. Nevertheless, he believed the safest course was, rather than follow, to try to overtake Georgiana. If she stayed in England, indubitably she would be located by the agents he had upon her trail. Alone in England she was not really safe, but certainly safer than in France.

His plan was less precise and more sparse than he would have liked. He would make certain she had not joined a medical unit, thereupon, retrace her. He prayed she stayed in England. Trifling with gouty toes and upset stomachs could not prepare her for the horrors she would find in the wake of battle. Was there any doubt, Fitzwilliam’s recounting of his Spanish engagements were testament enough to the carnage. War was not adventuresome. It was not romantic. It was perdition.

Such a recollection led him to accept that the Darcy reputation was the very least of concerns.

His journey was broken but once, the respite embracing all the recumbence men and animals could engender whilst Mr. Darcy paced menacingly about, obviously under his own counsel. His Herculean determination was looked upon with wonder by his weary coachmen. However, by the time his carriage finally drew to a stop near the wharf at Dover, even Darcy had begun to feel the fatigue of the road.

Thick with soldiers and longshoremen, the bustling wharves, however, newly invigorated him. Then, all too soon, his renewed spirits were dashed. He learnt Fitzwilliam’s ship was not to stop at Dover. He saw no other choice. He must depart for the continent. The beleaguerment his departure had bestowed upon Elizabeth nagged him and he was most unhappy to have to extend it.

When he located Bingley’s ship, the Barrett, he learnt it was to set sail under the cover of darkness only six hours hence. Bingley’s information was that it would attempt a landing near Bolougne sur Mer. Howbeit the name and departure were accurate, Darcy learnt the ship did not carry cargo. Now the H.M.S. Barrett, it had been fitted with cannons.

If it was now His Majesty’s ship, it was only recently thus, for the flaking paint and foetid smell of the vessel told of its neglect. Such laxity would not be allowed by the Royal Navy for long. Darcy had not the smallest notion of that which constituted seaworthiness. His only hope was that the vessel could stay afloat until they crossed the Channel.

Without hesitation, he had his name added to its manifest.

Sending his footmen and coach on their way, he weathered the wait for embarkation with his back to the wall of a public house. Travelling incognito demanded he not board any sooner than necessary (even if he had to sit in a taproom as an alternative). The last thing he did upon English soil was to send an express to Elizabeth to advise her that he sailed and the name of the ship.

It was evenfall before he finally boarded. He took no more than a single step upon the gangplank before he was jostled roughly aside by a group of midshipmen. His initial response at such inexcusable rudeness was a rebuke. However, he realised the perpetrators of such discourtesy were too busy with their immediate task to listen to a lesson upon civility. For betwixt them they were dragging two men, both of whom were groaning with inebriation. Onto the ship they climbed, and into service in the Royal Navy.

“Two more ‘volunteers’ for the sea duty?” was Darcy’s mild, if facetious, enquiry.

This remark was generally ignored by the sailors, for they had their hands full when the victims of their press-gang suddenly realised their predicament and began to resist. As he watched these doings, Darcy was reminded of the pride the general populace of England had in their navy.

“The most loyal navy in the world,” Lady Millhouse was wont to remind everyone whenever her father, the Admiral’s name came up in conversation.

The sea was a seductive mistress and Darcy did not doubt that many men were subjugated to her mystique. Nonetheless, he was not particularly blinded by patriotism. Clearly, there was little chance for desertion aboard a ship once it set sail (one man’s loyalty is another’s prison). In another time, another place, he might have interceded upon the purloined men’s behalf. But for then, he only stood to the side and let the flailing men be brought aboard. He would not interfere in another’s quarrel. He faced far too many of his own. It was only by reason of his considerable connexions and Bingley’s name that he was even on this sorry excuse for a battleship.

When at last the mighty H.M.S. Barrett literally creaked out of the harbour, everyone aboard knew its destination fell at chance’s feet. Albeit Boulogne was their port-of-call, in truth, they had none, for the coast of northern France was fortified with six-inch guns. Their captain (no admiral would set foot upon smaller than a ninety-gun boat) had a simple mission. He was to land where the guns were not. Thus, wind against them and rough seas were not the greatest vexation, simply the most immediately uncomfortable.

The wamble of the ship influenced Darcy to find a secluded spot on deck to practise his seldom-used French. It was a bright, if cold, night for spring; the air was clear, but as always in the Channel, the water was choppy. Even his sound constitution became a little queasy as he stood at the stern and looked at the roiling water churned by the rudder. The fresh sea air was a meagre reward.

Contemplating the murky brine, his attention was caught by a fellow rail-hugger. A young man, his face so fresh it did not appear to have seen seventeen years, was retching violently. With each turn of his stomach, he was upended ever farther over the side and in danger of plunging overboard all together.

Darcy abandoned his French long enough to grab the boy by the seat of his pants and haul him back. The lad sank moaning onto the deck, simultaneously begging for his mother and the deliverance of death.

“This weather will soon settle, as shall your stomach, I grant you,” Darcy assured him.

“Aye thank you sir, Aye hope you’re right.”

The young man eyes were wide with fright and red from hurling his supper.

“First time out?”

A nod from the boy was punctuated by another moan of nausea.

Darcy said, “You shall get your sea legs soon. Just be glad you are in the King’s Navy. It is the mightiest to sail the sea. Your mother shall see you again.”

The boy replied, “Aye wish, indeed, a navy man Aye was, sire, but Aye cannot confess to be. Aye am in the infantry. So my ma may have to remember the last time she saw me and be satisfied.”

The boy’s words were true as any spoken, thus Darcy had nothing to add. He nodded once and moved away. It would be prudent, he decided, not to venture into consoling any more anxious lads lest he fare again no better than he just had. It had been an enlightenment to speak to him, however. For it was that boy’s words that uncovered the true naval nature of the Barrett.

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 allez-vous? S’il vous plait. Je m’appelle Monsieur D’arcy.”