Mr. Darcy Takes a Wife (72 page)

Increasingly, John’s voice took upon a meandering turn, utterly unintelligible, until he drifted asleep altogether. As he watched John’s chest struggle for breath, Darcy could think of nothing but the night he thought Elizabeth was dead, and it compleatly usurped his will. In defence of the possible mortification of actually weeping, he fled outside to gather himself.

Leaning against a wall, he gradually slid to a sitting position, his head betwixt his knees. He reached up to loosen his cravat, for he felt as if he was choking. His hand fell back, however, for his tie was not what constricted him. He had already surrendered it for use as a tourniquet. Ruthlessly, he tore at his top shirt button, determined to get more air. Although the button was not what strangled him, conquering so lowly a thing as that was a victory at that moment.

It took him a while to regain some sense of control, if not of circumstance, at least his own countenance. It was apparent to him that Georgiana did not know of John’s earlier misapprehension about being his son. Darcy was exceedingly grateful he was spared the particular mortification of explaining the whys and wherefores of that situation to his sister. With renewed resolve, he returned inside and he and Georgiana both watched through the afternoon as John slowly and painfully died.

It was but one more Derbyshire youth vanquished, but John’s death allowed Darcy to put a face on the multitudes that went before him.

* * *

Unable to bear the thought of his interment in the mass grave behind the hospital, Darcy decided to see to having John buried upon Roux’s property. As he moved to make those arrangements, he saw another man, shot only in the leg, wearing a uniform and insignia identical to John’s. He stopped and inquired if his officer was Major Wickham.

The man said, “Yea, but dead he is. Aye saw his body. He had a good horse—Aye donno what happened to him, but he were worth twenty of the major.”

There was, no doubt, more than one British major of smaller value than his horse, but because Wickham always liked to be well-mounted, the sergeant’s summation of his character seemed particularly keen to Darcy. He thanked the man mildly and walked on. So mildly did he respond, had anyone observed the exchange, the level of acquaintance betwixt Darcy and Major Wickham most certainly would not have been inferred. Those within the full ken of Wickham’s dubious morals, however, would have understood Darcy’s ambivalence.

Darcy did not investigate his own feelings upon the matter. He wondered only if the dead body the soldier witnessed was indeed Major Wickham or simply a corpse in his uniform jacket. It was obvious that query would lay unanswered, regardless how diligently he speculated. The single thing Darcy knew as true thereupon, was his own mind. For if he ever again saw Wickham alive, he intended to do everything within his ample power to render him not.

* * *

A messenger was hastened to Roux alerting him of need of a gravesite. Belatedly, Darcy realised Roux would ready a final resting-place befitting of Fitzwilliam’s station, not that of a Pemberley groom. As he thought of that particular misunderstanding, it was with more amusement than he knew he should; but at the moment, black humour was the only kind to be had.

It was upon his re-entry to the building that he overheard an insistent conversation between several doctors and two guards. So urgent was their discourse, he slowed his steps long enough to overhear what was being discussed. He was staggered to hear someone speak of Putrid Fever and that quarantine was being instituted forthwith.

Putrid Fever, Gaol Fever, Louse Fever, Typhus. Many names, but they all meant the same: epidemic, plague. The wards had been tainted. Darcy was not surprised, for the filth that could not be overcome in so unclean a mass of injured men invited lice. The doctors intended to repair to another hospital site some ten miles away. The trail of wounded would be rerouted. Those who were in the hospital would stay, thus invoking a likely death sentence on them. Guards would assure no one came or left. Darcy begat a sedately frantic search for Georgiana.

Cornering her away from other patients, he explained that if they were to take leave they must immediately. Commandeering Mott, they each took an end of the stretcher, eased Fitzwilliam out the door, and carefully laid him in the waggon. The only benefit of the colonel’s bandaged eyes was that he did not see them when they placed John’s corpse next to him. It was wrapped in the fringed blanket originally meant to cover the man John had most admired. As Georgiana crawled into the bed of the waggon to steady Fitzwilliam, neither Darcy nor his sister spoke of the irony.

All loaded, Darcy turned to Mott and handed him a sovereign. “You did not see us take leave.”

Mott plucked the coin from his hand and bit down upon it hard.

Gleefully, he said, “For a quid, Guv’nor, I’d strangle me own ma.”

“No doubt,” Darcy opined solemnly.

Not looking back, Darcy climbed upon the waggon and gave a decisive slap to the reins of the horses. The team strained against their harnesses and the waggon barely began to roll when they heard the last word Darcy wanted to have ringing in his ears.

“Halt!”

An officious guard had spied them and decided no one would take leave as of then and there. Word was not yet official, and was it, Darcy thought it most unlikely he would have complied with a demand to stay, regardless. The guard stepped into their path, one hand upon his gun, the flat of his other extended. So near to getting them all out of the hospital and in kinder hands, Darcy was not in a mood to debate.

“Stand aside,” he commanded.

“I’m givin’ the orders here. And Aye said halt,” insisted the soldier unholstering his weapon.

Standing, Darcy put his hand to his blade, but did not yet draw it. All the man needed to know was that he would. Yet the man stood his ground. And as it is -imprudent to issue a threat one does not intend to carry out, Darcy did not hesitate to draw his sword from its sheath and again demand the man to step aside. At the hubbub, another guard came over, long gun at the ready. Even though poised offensively, both men began to blink with rapidity under the cold stare of a man well prepared to face off with them both. A single blade was outmatched by one gun, not even considering two. Of this, Darcy cared little. The guards would step aside or he would have little decision but which of the men he would first run through.

Perchance the hue and cry initiated it, possibly not. But the first large drops of a summer storm began to fall upon Darcy’s shoulders as he stood ready to do murder once again. The loud thock, thock, thock against his hat was overwhelmed by a thunder crack, and that detonating clap from the sky (however melodramatic) was a truer definition of his anger than any mere cannonade.

From behind him came the command, “Cease!”

It was accompanied by the cocking of a gun.

In unison, the guards’ gazes forsook Darcy’s angry face and rested just beyond his shoulder. There, they stared into the twin barrels of a military pistol. And if their faces bore a look of extended incredulity, Darcy’s might have mirrored the same had he looked. But he needed not to turn around to know his sister stood behind him, owned the voice, and held the gun.

Prudently, the guards complied with Georgiana’s demand, thus allowing Darcy to lower his sword and slap the reins against the team’s back, with a sedate order to the horses to, “Walk on.”

As they started forward with a jerk, the first guard saw a moment of vulnerability in Georgiana’s unsteady footing. Not of a mind to lose his only recently obtained authority, he lowered his musket ominously at her and pulled back the breach. Darcy had only time to kick his boot upward at the gun, which, at this insult, discharged at the horizon and to the right of Darcy’s head, almost dislodging him from the waggon. Recovering his seat and his anger in an instant, his sword found the man’s gullet, its tip convincing the guard to stand back with no further commotion.

Thereupon, the small procession was allowed to start up the long road to healing.

When the address was located, Elizabeth was perplexed. It was not a building, shop, nor home. It appeared not to exist. There was only a park. She sat in the coach whilst trying to decide what to do, wondering if some person had played a hideous tease upon her. Her heart sank, and she scolded herself for not heeding -Bingley’s warnings.

Duly chastened, she decided since there were benches and it was the appointed hour, she would seat herself and see if anyone came about. Handed out of the coach, she disguised her pregnancy with a generous shawl, sat in an obvious spot beneath the shade of a large tree, and waited. Waiting an hour was no problem for this veteran of wait. She had just vowed she would sit there until twilight when she was approached.

It was not a man who came to her, but a woman. Elizabeth did not recognise her, but the woman sat next to her with no introduction of herself and simply asked, “Mrs. Darcy?” but it was not a true query; the woman obviously knew who she was.

Elizabeth acknowledged she was and queried anxiously, “Do you have word from Mr. Darcy?”

The woman took so murderously long a time in answering, Elizabeth thought it almost perverse. She endeavoured, however, to remain calm and wait what time this woman needed.

Finally, not answering her question, the woman instead asked as she fingered a locket, “Do you not remember me, Mrs. Darcy?”

Elizabeth’s first response was a lack of recollection. She shook her head. Thereupon, she hesitated whilst eyeing her more carefully. The woman was quite toothsome and annoyingly familiar, but Elizabeth could not place her. She was very fair, with golden hair and slim waist. Upon a specific turn of her head, Elizabeth remembered the single time she had seen the woman. It was outside the elegant bagnio on Bond Street. The one that her husband said he had visited before they were married. This woman had stood poised to enter it.

She had a decided elegance in her address, but her accent was French, which answered at least one of Elizabeth’s unasked questions. A subtle change upon Elizabeth’s features was enough for a woman who had spent a lifetime in such matters to detect it.

She said, “I see you do.”

Only momentarily detoured, Elizabeth quickly returned to her mission, “You have me at a disadvantage, forgive me, for you know my name, but I know not how you are called.”

Beginning to wonder just what were this woman’s wiles, Elizabeth decided to be forthright. She had no guile of her own, no time for chicanery. She desired only word of her husband, and if this woman would not cough it up forthwith, Elizabeth was truly sorry she had not brought her pistol.

The woman replied, “You may call me Juliette, for your husband does.”

The reminder was not particularly relished, but Elizabeth said, “Then I will be Elizabeth to you. I assure you that I need only to know you have heard from Mr. Darcy and he is well.”

When Elizabeth bade her to call her by her Christian name, Juliette appeared to be taken aback and sat looking at Elizabeth in a most direct fashion.

Finally, she said, “He was quite well one week ago.”

At finally hearing first-hand that Darcy was yet alive, Elizabeth closed her eyes, and let out a deep breath of relief. Then she touched her fingers to her forehead, the release of tension leaving her feeling a little faint. Hastily recovering, she leaned forward in urgent enquiry.

“Can you tell me where he is, or his circumstance?”

She realised the mysteriousness of the letter had not been uncovered. For she could have learnt ten hours earlier by post that he was alive.

Juliette remained elusive, “I was in the company of your husband in France, near Lille.”

Elizabeth remembered Darcy mentioned relations there before he left, and asked, “Is he there now? Was he well?” She did not query the circumstance or the connexion, only wanting to hear he was well.

“Where he is this day, I cannot say. But when I saw him, he was quite well. Quite well, indeed, but in need of comfort. As you might know, it is the comfort of such men as Darcy that I provide, no?”

What Juliette implied was hardly veiled and Elizabeth felt her cheeks begin to burn, hoping they were not in high enough colour to expose her ire. She had begun to question whether Darcy had actually bid the woman to bring her a message. That would be more than a little curious if he were truly in this woman’s company in the manner she hinted. Under such perplexity, she was uncertain if she should discount all Juliette’s information if part of it seemed false, or believe information selectively. It took her only a moment to decide to acknowledge the implication and speak the only way she knew how. Frankly.

Elizabeth said, “Let us have no misunderstanding. Though I doubt not my husband’s love, I do not willingly share him. But if you saw him and gave him comfort when he needed it, you shall have my undying appreciation. I need only to know that he is well and not in danger.”

Juliette had been paying rapt attention to Elizabeth’s face, therefore, the moment her gaze lowered, Elizabeth by design looked down to see what had wrested her attention. They both sat for a moment looking at Elizabeth’s unquestionably blossoming stomach. Thereupon, mortified, Elizabeth snatched up the end of her shawl that had dropped from her and repaired her concealment.

She not only was embarrassed by the exposure, she felt large and ungainly sitting next to the lovely, blonde woman. The lovely, blonde, lithe, French woman who said she was in her husband’s company one week ago. And even though the last thing Elizabeth would have wanted from Juliette was sympathy, she saw Juliette’s eyes, whose gaze had been quick and flinty, had softened.

It embarrassed her further that she had done the heedless and exposed her condition in public; she should have stayed in the coach like a lady. (Now that she knew Darcy was alive, it was easy to forget she was anxious beyond all caring only a few moments before.)

And of this Juliette spoke, but not in censure, “Forgive me, Elizabeth. It was unkind of me to demand you to come here and speak to a woman such as myself in public. I fear I misjudged you.”

She looked off into the distance a moment and murmured, “I should have guessed that Darcy would not have married less.”

As a woman whose life was one of disguise of every sort, Juliette had revealed much. Too much for Elizabeth not to understand the esteem that she must have felt for Darcy at one time. Thus, compassion allowed the flush of anger that had begun to creep up her neck to abate. Elizabeth realised she was undergoing some sort of test. To what gauge, she could not guess (and hoped the measure Juliette had underestimated of her was not her girth).

“I was in your husband’s company at the home of his cousin. He knew I was to travel to London and inquired might I get word to you, for he knew of your fear for his safety. He thought it unlikely his other posts had reached you. There was a letter, but I destroyed it, for my party was accosted before we departed France and I could not have words in English upon my person. Had I thought to have him write it in French, I would have been happy to, how do you say...oui...translate.”

Elizabeth almost offered that she could read French, thank you (which would have been a generous fabrication, but she so did not want to admit she was not conversant in French to this French woman who had seen her husband in France).

Prudently, she only inquired, “Did he say if he had yet found his sister?”

Juliette shook her head, and told her, “He did not tell me of his business. If that was his mission, I hope he finds her soon, for treachery rules France now. No one is safe.”

That Darcy did not tell Juliette of his business was a reassurance of his fidelity, but learning of the continued peril in France compelled Elizabeth to prefer to fear for it than for his safety. She thought to change the subject, not truly wanting to hear the woman speak Darcy’s name so intimately again.

Elizabeth asked, “Do you have family there?”

Juliette nodded.

“We both have reason to pray. I shall include yours in my own.”

They both stood. Elizabeth re-engaged her shawl. That secured, she again thanked Juliette, who acknowledged it with a demure curtsy. Here, Elizabeth was torn by not wanting to not curtsy in return, lest Juliette take it as a cut, or attempt a curtsy and risk injury to her person (and mortification to her dignity). Hence, she gave more of a bow than curtsy, certain she looked awkward and unfeminine, then chastised herself for concern of something so shallow. As Elizabeth walked back to her coach, she felt drained but bathed in relief that Darcy was alive at least one week ago and able to get word to her.

Upon the long ride home it occurred to her that she had never once been in fear of anything but her husband’s life whilst he had been gone. That she should fear for his faithfulness was no more likely to her, but it certainly now visited her thoughts.

For, howbeit Elizabeth had heard her husband addressed as “Darcy” by any number of friends and acquaintances, she had never felt quite the same twinge in her stomach as she did when Juliette said his name. Elizabeth could only imagine it as he must have heard it, Juliette’s voice soft and fetching against his ear, her breath warm. In bed. Probably naked.

“Dar-cy,” Elizabeth endeavoured to mimic Juliette’s alluring accent.

“Dar-cy,” she repeated.

She shook her head. It was useless. It was not possible for her to recreate Juliette’s provocative lilt. That abandoned, she shook any picture from her mind of Darcy with Juliette, in the near or distant past. Her prayers for his safety had been answered. She chose to take the meeting with Juliette as it was: a way for him to get a message to her. As she thought about that, she was both amused and bewildered. It was an amusement to think of him having to request Juliette to contact her, and a bewilderment as to just why he did. Were circumstances that dire in France, or simply that serendipitous? She prayed for serendipity.

Her jealousy had been once piqued by Darcy’s past and she had wished he had not known carnal embrace with any other women. Had he not had that connexion, she knew herself to have great need of information of him yet, and promised not to -question what was behind them, for to-morrow seemed to carry a far greater burden.

Larger issues at rest, she fleetingly allowed herself to consider that it was Juliette who had schooled her husband so well in the art of love. For as beautiful as she was, Elizabeth believed she was older than was Darcy. Now she knew she was French as well. Elizabeth knew the French to be connoisseurs of pleasure. Some things were not difficult to surmise.

But there was one nagging query she thought she might ask Darcy when he returned. It was about the origin of particular acts of love. She was certain he had told her they were Latin.