Mr. Darcy Takes a Wife (69 page)

“I am quite happily married, Viscount.”

Roux guffawed, “What does that have to do with tonight, Monsieur Darcy?”

Despite the provocation to pontificate, Darcy said mildly, “You, of course, have not met my wife, Viscount, or you would not have expected otherwise.”

“Our Voltaire said, ‘The gloomy Englishman, even in his loves always wants to reason.’ We in France fall less to reason and more to desire. You seem not to be your father’s son in that respect, for I am certain you have heard stories of his conquests.”

It took a moment for the spurious nature of this information to register to Darcy. When it did, he said rather stiffly, “Youth has its indiscretions.”

Roux laughed again, “I find it so amusing that our sons think their fathers have no desires of the flesh. They think us aging eunuchs. “

“Certainly not.”

“Of course you do! Gerard was not inconsolable, I assure you.” Resorting to sotto voce, Roux continued, “I must confess though, I cannot imagine how he only came to have but a single batard; I myself can count at least six and I was not so successful in amour as he!”

In defence of his father’s honour, Darcy very nearly made the mistake of letting loose his temper. He successfully contained it, taking another swallow of his wine (to busy his tongue lest it be otherwise inclined) knowing some men had need of assigning their own weaknesses to those about them.

Seeing the severity of Darcy’s expression, Roux realised he had trespassed, laughed charmingly again, and said offhandedly, “On dit, a rumour, of course. Only a rumour, Mon D’arcy.”

In occupation of wanting the matter to fall, Darcy checked his watch and saw he had spent enough time after dinner to reckon courtesy served. He almost made his apologies to Roux when he espied Juliette yet in the company of the man from dinner (who bore a seriously lubricious smile) and a notion set to work upon him.

He had posted letters to Elizabeth religiously, but at every turn was told it unlikely that they would find their way to England. Nothing other than military missives was accepted. Useless as the effort might have been, he nevertheless continued to write. This, only partly for the small chance of them reaching her; it made him feel a sense of propinquity to home. Billets doux to Elizabeth soothed his saturnine turns.

His presumption was that Juliette’s home was yet London. It was puzzling that she bechanced to be in the north of France, but implausible or not, for his purposes, he prayed she was going, not coming. In another time, he would never have considered entering into a conversation with her in such a situation. But it was not another time, another situation. He made his apologies, but only of immediate company, and thither he went.

When he excused himself from Roux and his daughter and made his way toward the lovely Miss Clisson, it occurred to Darcy that they might believe he was impugning his own declarations. As did her oily companion, who retreated forthwith of Darcy’s ingress to their group. Seeing this, Darcy hoped he had not interfered with any previous scheme Juliette might have laid, if only because he hoped to have her cooperate in a favour. To the contrary, she did not appear thwarted, but turned and held out her hand for him to kiss. As she did, she raised one eyebrow slightly and Darcy chose not to be reminded it was an expression he had often seen Elizabeth present him.

He took her fingers and kissed the back of her hand. The familiar redolence of her skin evoked memories that he would just as soon not be recalled.

“It has been a long time,” he offered.

Her agreement was only by way of a slight nod, and he wondered if she remembered the day he and Elizabeth saw her upon the street in Mayfair. If she did, she did not speak of it, she only stood in silence, perchance waiting to see what brought him over to her. He had never spoken to her in a strictly social situation and he shifted uncomfortably, a demeanour, nonetheless, she knew well.

Finally he said (a little stupidly, he was certain), “It is a great surprise to bechance you here.”

“Indeed, for myself as well,” she answered.

“What finds you here in the face of war?”

“I might bid you the same,” she countered.

Not inclined to banter, Darcy leapt directly to the point, “Do you fancy to return to England soon?”

She seemed taken unawares at this enquiry. However, she said that her overnight stop at Viscount Roux’s villa with friends was not simply an entertainment, for she was travelling even then to find passage to return to London. She did not say if Roux was an acquaintance of hers or her friends. His single-minded quest of her itinerary did not include why she was in his cousin’s house, just where she would go from there.

“I have only come from Verdun. I had hoped to persuade mon pére to return to England, for he has only me. Both of my brothers died with the emperor upon his great conquest of Russia,” she gave a rueful laugh, “but Papa would not repair from my mother’s grave. There is only death here and he chooses to stay with the dead.”

Darcy said what he thought were the proper condolences, but found it difficult to make idle chatter when he had a specific reason to seek her conversation.

He bid, “Pray, are you returning to England directly?”

She said, “As soon as is possible.”

“I wonder…” he began and then uncharacteristically hesitated. Thereupon, he began again, “I beg you to grant me a very generous favour.”

“Oui. Of course.”

“With the chaos about, I fear I have been unsuccessful in getting a letter posted to my wife. Do you think it possible for you to take one to England with you?”

“Oui, of course.”

“It will be no trouble? I would not want to impose…”

The possibility of imposition compleatly explored, she told him she was to depart the next morning. He assured her he would have the letter for her before she took her leave. As he was preparing to excuse himself, Juliette initiated further conversation. This by way of announcing a false motive for his relinquishment.

“Please, I do not want to keep you from your companion,” she said, and motioned toward the company he had just left.

Across the room, Marie-Therese was eyeing Juliette with open hostility. Rarely feeling the need to explain himself, he, however, found himself doing just that.

“The woman is a friend to my cousin, not of myself.”

“I was not speaking of that fatua mulier, but the vierge, Mademoiselle Roux. She seems quite taken with you.”

Taken aback by Juliette’s frank and somewhat coarse denunciation of Marie-Therese, Darcy glanced toward Roux’s daughter who was, indeed, looking at him in unadulterated devotion, and sputtered, “She is just a girl. Surely you do not suggest…”

“Look there. Speak but a word and I assure you she will happily surrender her virtue-knot unto you.”

Heretofore quite unused to hearing virginal hymens addressed in the drawing room, he reddened and glanced about to see if they were overheard before remembering he was in French company. Hence, he did not immediately take flight, and discarded Juliette’s notion.

“The girl is an innocent flirt.”

“I cannot fault the girl for her acumen. If she wants to be delivered of her chastity, she could do worse than to avail herself of your amorous favours.”

His crimson deepened, not only because of the nature of the praise, but that she was in a position to opine it in the first place.

Gathering together his considerable hauteur, he bowed formally, “If you will excuse me.”

It was perchance fortunate that he did not see the mischievous glint in Juliette’s eyes as he left her side, lest her amusement at his expense further sully his already sorely abused dignity.

Customarily the most cautious of men, Darcy knew it was unorthodox, but did not question the wisdom of requesting a woman from his past—a woman of decided intimacy from his past—to deliver a message to his wife. For he was desperate to contact Elizabeth. He must get word to her, to let her know he had found Georgiana safe, if nothing else. And that he would be home to her soon.

Seeking out Roux, he excused himself, begging his early departure the next morning. Roux, however, was not ready to let his guest leave company without a further toasting. He drank to the future, the British, the French, the weather, and eventually, simply to excess.

After only picking at his meal, and downing far more wine than he knew was wise, the inevitable occurred. The wine Darcy rarely partook befriended him far too acutely and he felt himself in his cups.

Making every effort to appear not to be, and with all the gravity of an undertaker, he bowed goodnight to Roux and his guests.

Charging down a hill would seem inordinately easier than an upward onslaught. In reality, it was more dangerous, gravity and momentum lessening manoeuvrability. If a horse was not surefooted, his rider usually plunged to the ground, as often as not being crushed beneath his (or someone else’s) mount. After the initial charge whence protocol and aesthetics demanded sabres pointed heavenward, cavalrymen such as Fitzwilliam pursued the enemy in not so recherché a fashion. Often they wielded a pistol in their other hand, reins clutched betwixt gritted teeth.

Hence, if there was one accommodation certain to be afforded the cavalry, it was that each officer was allowed to supply his own mount. Whatever the cost in time and trouble, they brought their own horses. If cavalry was integral to success in war, and it was, the trust in one’s seat in battle was an inviolate part of that success. Of course the horse Fitzwilliam rode was Scimitar; he was as much a part of Fitzwilliam’s perception of himself as a cavalryman as his uniform. The horse and Fitzwilliam were in such close concert, Fitzwilliam was secure enough to abandon his reins altogether, knowing Scimitar would respond instantly to no more than the subtlest of pressure from his jack-booted knees.

By mid-battle, it became a pounding match and many of those horses along with their riders had been lost, for there was little but mangle and mess. Few infantrymen were yet fighting and horse soldiers were the only true defence remaining. The standard bearer was a stern rider who stood his ground through strong assault, but he was soon victim to the murderous cannon barrage. The standard drooped to the ground just as another man leapt from his horse to rescue it. It was essential for it to remain upright, for the yellow standard of their horse company was the symbol to which all rallied. As long as it stood, they knew from whence to regroup. Fitzwilliam did so as rote, and all able amassed to their flag, thereupon besieged the enemy once more. Each time they regrouped, their number grew fewer.

The fusillade continued, cannonball after cannonball fell like monolithic hailstones, and the horses were spooked to consider wild dashes to escape the melee. It was a separate battle just to keep them from bolting. Scimitar jumped about nervously but did not flee, his confidence in Fitzwilliam that keen. His master, however, was not compleatly undaunted, for the enemy onslaught was so savage there was not time to reload his pistol, thus his sword was given no reprieve from blood.

The French upon horseback were few, too; many horses had been dispatched. The cavalrymen not killed fought with sabre and gun from the ground. Scimitar’s sure-footedness had kept Fitzwilliam mounted long after others had fallen, thus giving him a height advantage, but also rendering him a blatant target. Thus, it was not the sword or the gun that brought him down, but a cannon. The shot landed to the right of Scimitar, who reared up at the explosion, the percussion finally dislodging his footing. Having no time to jump clear, the dying horse collapsed onto Fitzwilliam’s leg. Knowing him mortally wounded, Fitzwilliam had little time to grieve, for as the eviscerated horse flailed in his death throes, he struggled frantically to scramble from beneath some eighty stone of horseflesh.

Before he could wriggle free, a French cavalry officer approached, his sabre resting upon his shoulder. This man too was already dead (he had a ghastly wound), but he did not know it and raised his sword. It was as if in half-time that Fitzwilliam watched the French soldier’s approach and the proffering of his weapon. Desperately, he tugged at Scimitar’s reins.

“Scimitar, until now you have never once given me reason to curse you.”

With a moaning groan deep from his chest, the horse made one last valiant lunge and freed Fitzwilliam’s crushed leg. If Fitzwilliam’s decision to join Wellington had been more than simple reckless risking of his neck, possibly even suicidal, his will to live was fiercer than self-destruction. With the preternatural strength of a man not yet ready to be carried from the field upon his shield, he stood upon his one good leg and plunged his sabre into the Frenchman’s beckoning chest. There was but a brief moment to savour his success before he heard the eerie whistle announcing the imminent arrival of yet another cannonball.

The missile, in fortune, did not strike him directly, but ignited a powder horn at what would have been at his feet was he yet standing. However, a burning flash seared his eyes and the force knocked Fitzwilliam backward. He tried to rise, fell, tried again, and fell once more. From thence, he heard himself scream out in pain and anger.

* * *

Lying amongst the mass of dead and writhing men and horses for an ungodly long time, he began to realise it was quite possible he would die where he was. Not from the enemy, for the battle either was over or fighting elsewhere. He could hear yet occasional salvos in the distance. But death would come as surely as the sunset, could he not stanch the blood seeping from his leg.

There was a tinkling and murmuring in the distance as unknown persons approached. He prayed they were British, not French come to finish off the wounded.

It would appear, however, the colour of the uniform was the single thing of no import to the hoards that scampered across the gore-strewn battlefield that day. They were the ragged camp-followers, both alien and allied, who were as relentless in scavenging as any London mud-lark. Without the tedious nicety of making certain their benefactors dead, they methodically stripped the bodies of their weapons, coats, boots, whatever they could heist. One inventive fellow carrying a bucket brandished a formidable pair of pinchers and inspected mouths often conveniently rendered opened by the throes of death. If he saw no gold, with the utmost delicacy, he appropriated front teeth (an incisor in good condition brought two guineas in London; not every dental deficient could afford ivory or gold).

Auspiciously, Fitzwilliam was spared this particular desecration, yet another vulture beset him for his fine boots. Someone, man or woman, he had no notion, tugged at one heel. Fortune or misfortune, the one they chose first to pilfer encased his wounded leg and at the resultant pain, he rose up wildly swinging the blade he clutched yet in his hand.

“Get back! Get back, I say!”

The unidentified despoilers promptly retreated, for there were innumerable other victims far less resistant. Of this, Fitzwilliam was not truly cognisant. For the pain and exertion of his rebellion robbed him of what little strength he had. He fell back, his arm across Scimitar’s lifeless neck.

Thenceforward, he was rewarded with an unconsciousness that would take days for him to thank.