Do You Love Me

by Laura Moretti

  Darcy hesitated, then casted a glance at the two stout footmen and the solid looking coachman. His hand fleeted over the pocket of his coat, and Elizabeth wondered if he was carrying a pistol.

  “I do not see why not,” he mused, while Elizabeth was thinking that they were not more at peril on the beach than on the roads, if peril there really was. Darcy smiled to her. “Have you ever seen the sea, Miss Bennet?”

  “I have not, sir,” she answered, smiling. “But if you wish to hasten back to Pemberley...”

  “We will not stay long,” he decided.

  To the coast they went. It was not far. Less than an hour brought them to the end of a difficult road – from there they had to walk, against the wind, the footmen following them in silence. Soon the scrubby soil gave way to sand patched with sea grass and rocks – they came to the top of a very low hill and suddenly the beach and the vast ocean emerged before them – Elizabeth held her breath for a few seconds – the view was spectacular. Georgiana hastened toward the water while Darcy and Elizabeth continued to stroll leisurely to join her. Another couple was walking along the shore; a family has settled on a grey, flat rock while the children were playing in the water. The entire scene was breathtakingly beautiful. The wind rose up fiercely again – it was exhilarating – Elizabeth wished she could take her shoes off and run – but it would not have been dignified – she turned, laughing, towards Darcy, but the thunder resonated again, in the merciless blue, perfect sky, and she realized…

  The rumble was not the sound of thunder.

  It was the sound of canons.

  Darcy reacted at the same time. He grabbed Elizabeth’s wrist and shouted: “Run to the carriage!” but Elizabeth didn’t listen. She dashed toward Georgiana, who stood frozen on the sand, staring wide-eyed at the ships – because now there were ships, five of them, carried by the ferocious winds – two of the vessels seemed in hot pursuit of a third – Elizabeth could not distinguish the flags – and suddenly armed men appeared on the beach – running from something – towards something – towards them – the soldiers were not the militia – Elizabeth, holding Georgiana’s hand, was already racing the other way, dragging the young girl toward the carriage – toward the footmen – toward the hill – shots were fired. The stench of powder fed the air – if they could just reach the other side of the hill – oh God, where was Darcy? New shots – shouting – Georgiana fell – now the stench of blood – the two ladies went tumbling on the other side of the hill.

  Elizabeth’s head landed on a small rock. She must have lost consciousness, not more than a mere moment, because when she came to, they were lying on the ground, Georgiana in her arms, covered with blood.

  Elizabeth could not scream, could not talk – “Georgian…” she croaked.

  The girl opened her eyes. “My arm,” she whispered – she was so pale.

  “We must go!” the footman was yelling, but Elizabeth could not even register his presence, much less his words. He was trying to help the young ladies to stand, “there is – there is blood on your dress, Miss,” he stuttered, but Elizabeth could only whisper:

  “It is not mine, it is Miss Darcy’s.”

  Elizabeth’s head hurt terribly from where she had hit the stone – then she must have lost a whole minute, because when she was conscious of her surroundings again they were both in the carriage. Darcy was nowhere in sight – the canon noise was deafening – Georgiana was beginning to faint on the leather seat – she was losing blood. Elizabeth frantically began to tear off her petticoat to fashion a bandage for the young woman’s forearm. “We must go!” the coachman screamed, and Elizabeth shouted in return,

  “No! We cannot leave Mr. Darcy!”

  “He would want us to protect his sister!” the terrified coachman all but yelled at her. Elizabeth hardly had time to realize the man might actually be correct when fortunately Darcy himself arrived, pistol in hand.

  He jumped into the coach. “Go, Tom,” he ordered, and blanched when he saw the state of Georgiana.

  “It is only the arm, I believe,” Elizabeth said. “And I think it is just a scrape. But...” Darcy was now looking at Elizabeth and the blood covering her dress, his expression horrified. “I am not hurt, sir.”

  Darcy did not reply, in fact, he seemed incapable of speech as he inspected his sister’s wound. It was, indeed, superficial – but Georgiana seemed shocked into a state of confusion. They gave orders to go to the nearest town to try to find a surgeon – it was several minutes after that before Elizabeth was mistress enough of herself to ask Darcy what happened.

  “Two French ships were chasing an English one…”

  “Near our coast,” Elizabeth whispered.

  “On our coast, yes. And those men… They were not soldiers, but – they definitely worked for the enemy – when I left the militia was engaging with them.”

  “What about the family that was there? The children?”

  “I do not know.”

  Then there was silence, interrupted only by Georgiana’s moans – Darcy sat between the two women, holding his sister in his arms, comforting her in a low voice. The carriage seat was hardly fit for three – they were quite huddled together – in the smell of blood, sweat and powder – Elizabeth’s head was still hurting where she had hit the ground – her thoughts began to drift – she felt as though history from long ago was once again breathing life in the most horrendous way – French raids on the English coast were something that belonged to the past. Such a thing had not happened for – what – three centuries, maybe? Elizabeth could not remember exactly – yes, it has been the favorite game of the two countries, since time immemorial, to raid each other’s coastal towns and villages – killing, pillaging – and you can guess what happened to the women – but such a thing could not happen now. Now they lived in modern times – she felt as though they had fallen into a dreadful anachronism. She thought briefly of the seer’s prediction – blood on her dress – but was not the dress meant to be blue? Hers was white – Elizabeth must have lost consciousness again, because when she woke up, she found herself leaning along Darcy’s arm, her head reposing on his shoulder.

  They arrived in town – fortunately, her thoughts cleared because the arrival of two injured ladies only heightened the reigning confusion.

  The population was in a state of panic. Contradictory news flying around – the French had invaded – no, they had been rejected to the sea – or they were still fighting, the tide carrying new bodies every hour – but Darcy threw a lot of money around and Georgiana was finally carried into the best room of a very comfortable inn. He had to throw even more money, a small fortune, to convince the surgeon to come care for her, and then the man stayed barely a moment. He simply reassured them that the bullet had exited, hastily washed Georgiana’s injury with water, and instructed Elizabeth to change the bandages.

  “Also see to the cut on Miss Bennet’s head,” Darcy ordered, but the man would not be delayed any longer.

  “I have no time for fine ladies. The men need me on the coast,” he snapped, not forgetting, though, to pocket the very generous amount of money Darcy had used to lure him in – he disappeared – yes, that had been an unfair use of riches, Elizabeth thought, but she would have done the same thing – if it was Jane – she would have spent all of her money and begged the surgeon on her knees.

  Georgiana rested fitfully. Elizabeth and Darcy sat together by her side, descending at regular intervals to the common room for news. The confusion of the first hours was beginning to lift. It seemed that the combat was still ongoing – a huge naval battle, south of the Channel. The men they had seen were not sailors, they had been hired by Napoleon to debark and terrorize the population – but the redcoats had finally prevailed. “The silver lining is that the militia is useful for something at last,” commented an old man as he sipped his beer with tranquility – he had seen his share of war.

  The night was long indeed. Darcy and Elizabeth took turns sleeping in armchairs near Geo
rgiana’s bed, checking her for fever every now and then. Darcy’s pistol rested on the table. It was a strange and powerful intimacy, in the small, warm, dim room, at least Elizabeth felt it so. The situation was inappropriate, but she did not care and was certain nobody else did.

  It all seemed like a bizarre dream, she thought, standing in the deserted street at three in the morning – she needed news, and she needed air.

  The stars were completely invisible. The town seemed deserted – people had barricaded themselves in or left, she thought. Indeed, there was nobody around, only the same old soldier in the common room. He offered Elizabeth a beer – she took it, then went back outside. She felt very small in an immense universe – felt as though anything could happen, and destiny was waiting to... topple them all to one side of the hill or the other, maybe. If the battle really was raging right now; if it was already won, or lost, right now, then any minute the enemy troops could march into town – into the inn – into their room – and then – Darcy and his pistol on the table would not stop them. But no. That would not happen. England – England was different. England had been a safe haven for so long – a fortress in the ocean, protected from the chaos of the continent, protected by the sea, by cliffs, by laws, by history – it would not happen.

  ∞∞∞

  It didn’t.

  The next morning was bleak but calm. The battle had drifted to faraway waters, all imminent danger seemed past. Georgiana was pale and in pain, but she was not feverish. The carriage took them safely back to Pemberley.

  There was no mention of Miss Julia Howard, or of a betrothal, ever again.

  Act Three

  Pemberley

  The ball at Pemberley was magnificent. Everywhere in the country there was a flurry of extravagant celebrations – parties, balls, routs, dinners. The word “celebration” may be badly chosen, because there was nothing to actually celebrate except a very narrow escape – so maybe it was more akin to a declaration – like in Paris, when the Incroyables and the Merveilleuses dressed themselves in utmost luxury and indulged all night at the height of the French revolution. Yes, maybe that was what it was – that sudden English magnificence, gold, music, candles, all this profligacy was, forgive me Dear Reader, a big “fuck you” to fate – and to Napoleon, of course.

  Georgiana was much better, and she wanted to dance. Elizabeth’s headaches had subsided; she would always keep a small scar on her brow but she declared if that was the worst that the French tyrant could ever do to her, she would happily bear it. Everyone from the London circle joined them in Pemberley. As for the ball, it seemed that Darcy had invited half of the country – everyone joking that the nobility were doing their patriotic duty by spending as much money as possible in those difficult times.

  A week before, Bingley, in a fit of romanticism, told the assembly that he would be wearing the colors of his lady during that much anticipated evening. The statement instantly created a friendly rivalry, every gentleman in Pemberley trying to show more chivalry than the next. The dashing Mr. Egerton asked his wife what color she would wear at the ball – the former Miss Moore teasingly refused to say. Of course, the Viscount was instantly in a quest to find out how Georgiana would be dressed, and that mystery sparked much merry speculation.

  The day came. Two hours before the official beginning of the ball, the members of the Intellectual Club met downstairs, in the blue drawing room, to enjoy some vin de champagne – the real guests would arrive later. The room was delightful – the sun setting, flowers and candles everywhere – but more than beauty, there was such an excitement, a special joy in the air… After all that happened, after what had almost happened, wasn’t it a sort of miracle to be young, happy – in love, for some of them? It was just a good day to be alive.

  Never had Mrs. Egerton been more sparkling, witty and interesting – her deep grey eyes shining, her keen intelligence making her even more beautiful. Her husband was wearing a silver ribbon around his wrist – he had found a way to learn about her dress after all. Bingley was all in blue, and his wife all smiles. Three gentlemen, the Viscount and two neighbors who also had been invited a little early, were wearing Georgiana’s colors – clearly, there had been some indiscretion from the servants’ side – which perfectly suited everyone. Elizabeth was wearing her yellow dress, and when Mr. Darcy entered the room, she could not help looking – would she be human if she had not? He was wearing no colors – no ribbon, nothing – not a drop of yellow in sight.

  Of course not, Elizabeth reasoned, trying to mentally scold herself for her mad thoughts. Darcy focused on the company and did not speak to her at all.

  Elizabeth felt tears in her eyes for no valid reason. Around her, the scene was all lightness and joy: the Viscount invited Georgiana for an impromptu dance, he was humming the music. Bingley and Amelia began to sing along in a soft voice, marking the rhythm with their feet. Mrs. Egerton was laughing. Outside the air was silver.

  Was it because she knew, now, how fragile all that beauty – all that grace – really was, that Elizabeth felt such a powerful wave of melancholy? She walked to the pianoforte and began to accompany the dance – it was her way to take part of everybody’s pleasure, to give what she could not have – she thought Darcy’s eyes were on her but she did not have the heart to look.

  There was a light supper – ten guests had already joined them. Darcy escorted the highest ranking lady to the table, the Viscount followed with Georgiana. As the least prestigious female, Elizabeth came last, and as the least male, Mr. Helmut May, highly pleased with his fate, gallantly proposed his arm. Elizabeth took it with a smile; Mr. May’s conversation was always interesting.

  They were almost finished with the first course before Elizabeth noticed all the flowers were yellow.

  When she did, she froze – just for a second – then resumed talking and smiling, and her dinner companion did not notice anything. Elizabeth chastised herself instantly. What on earth was she imagining? The flowers were yellow because the table linens were purple – it made a beautiful arrangement – bright bouquets of jonquils and daffodils – Darcy would not have anything to do with the choice anyway.

  “Oh, the flowers – how bold – and original, Georgiana,” Amelia Bingley was saying in a low voice. Perhaps she was reading Elizabeth’s mind. “Were they your choice?”

  “No, my brother’s,” Georgiana answered.

  It was of no significance, Elizabeth kept repeating herself. She was just a silly girl, with silly ideas – like Lydia! Now that was a sobering thought. Darcy could not have been farther away from her. He did not meet her gaze once – so now Elizabeth could not help but think, but hope, he was avoiding her eyes because of the flowers – at that point, she had to laugh at her own folly.

  “Was that lovely laugh for me?” Mr. May asked, and Elizabeth shook her head, still smiling.

  “I beg your pardon, Mr. May, I was just struck with the most absurd notion – I was admiring how creative the human mind can be, in terms of interpreting facts that support a picture of what we most wish – we can all bend the truth to find evidence of what we secretly desire.”

  “Ah, now, is that not dreadfully true?” Mr. May said with a self-deprecating smile. Before Elizabeth could wonder what he meant, he passed her the plate of cold meat – and less than half an hour later the ball really began.

  Nothing of note happened – no scandal, no love affair, no betrothal announcement… except that somewhere around ten Darcy received a message – it was bad financial news, but Elizabeth would learn only about that later, and he hid his reaction perfectly from his guests.

  The evening was talked about for a very long time, for its splendor, and because it was the last ball the Darcy family would ever host at Pemberley – but of course, that, too, could hardly be known at the time. Elizabeth, whose mirthful reaction to her own foolishness had dispelled her melancholy, was invited for every dance – the third by Mr. Darcy himself. He approached her again after supper – but Mr. May was
walking towards her too, a jonquil in hand.

  “Had I known you would be wearing yellow, Miss Bennet,” he said, “I would have done this before,” he explained while putting the flower in his lapel. Darcy, who was listening, stared at him for a moment – and for an instant, Elizabeth really thought – but no more of this nonsense.

  Darcy asked for her hand in the last dance. It had a slow tempo, they were both mostly silent – that is how the night ended.

  ∞∞∞

  But harsh necessities must intrude.

  Three days after the failed invasion, a truce had been signed. France and England were negotiating peace – indeed, it was now generally believed that Napoleon had never intended to invade at all – it was a show of power meant to frighten the populace so as better impose his conditions.

  Those weeks – those months – of truce were dreadful to the country. Everything seemed up in the air; no one knew when or if the war would start brutally again. Napoleon was blocking the sea routes, French ships destroying the commercial vessels and slaughtering the men – and of course, denying everything at the negotiation table. After a while, French ships even began to attack English fishing boats, close to the coast – literally trying to starve the country. The blockade was deadly to the English economy – all of this was, of course, to hasten the peace signature and impose French conditions.