For Miss Bennet's Honour

by Sophia Woodford

  With the removal of the ladies, the gentlemen relaxed, and the captain's man came around with a bottle of 12-year port and one of fine Armagnac brandy. Darcy took the port; it had been at sea for some time, but had not suffered from that. It was tawny and rich, and he savoured the taste. He also savoured the respite from Miss Bennet's presence and the confusion she produced in him.

  However, Richard was there at his elbow, ready to reintroduce the subject.

  "Are you certain that Miss Bennet is travelling solely for pleasure?" Richard said. "It seems exceedingly unlikely to me that the aims of her journey do not coincide with our own."

  "It seems perfectly possible to me that she is simply at leisure," Darcy said. "You forget I knew her in Hertfordshire, before you and she met. She is a light girl. Amiable and pretty – " Though not enough to tempt me, his memory mockingly echoed for him – "but not, I think substantial. Honestly, Richard. Do you really think a provincial girl from the counties would travel to France alone, with only a maid for a companion, to undertake – what do you propose, a rescue mission?"

  "We do not hold the same opinion of Miss Bennet," Richard said, and ended the conversation there.

  Darcy was grateful. To tell the truth, he was beginning to regret this adventure. If he had known that in leaving England and travelling abroad, he would only have encountered the very reason he had wanted to leave England in the first place – but, he reminded himself firmly, no, Miss Bennet was not the reason he was travelling. He was travelling to save a foolish young girl and possibly help his cousin unpack treason. He might well end up a hero of the nation.

  It was with this happy thought in his head, and no others, that he finished his port, accepted another glass to toast for good luck and safe sailing, and retired to sleep.

  Chapter 9.

  Elizabeth could hardly rest that night. She told herself firmly, that it was only because this was her first time attempting to sleep at sea, that anyone would be so unquiet. But the dark-haired, stern-faced gentleman who continued to surface in her dreams did not let her persuade herself so easily.

  Exhausted and exasperated, she gave up and rose from the bed. Fresh water was scarce at sea, but there was enough for a quick, thorough wash. Elizabeth was patting her face dry when Louise knocked on the door.

  "The captain's boy gave me some bread rolls," she said, "a day old but they will do. He says we are an hour from port – would you like to come on deck and see the shore?"

  "Thank you, yes," Elizabeth said, quickly standing up. Her tiredness fell away as Louise pinned her hair, replaced with the excitement of seeing a new country for the first time in her life.

  The cliffs! White and proud, shining in the early summer sun like dewy white flowers. Elizabeth had never seen anything like it; she had been to Dover, and walked along the cliffs with her aunt and uncle, but that was a long time ago, and to see something so the same but different made her heart leap in her mouth. She watched with undeniable excitement as they sailed in a clean straight line into the mouth of the harbour.

  The ferry pulled along the docks, and was greeted with a great clamour and many small boats. The harbour was shallower than that at Southampton, and passengers had to transfer to little dinghies of four or five people to reach the shore. In each boat were runner boys, who were grabbing for their luggage. Elizabeth instinctively tried to pull it back away, but Louise snapped her fingers and addressed them in confident French, and they looked at her in mild awe before one of them held out his hand respectfully to Elizabeth. "Mademoiselle?" he said. Elizabeth looked at Louise, who nodded, and handed him the bag.

  Mr. Darcy was not seen, in the boats over, nor at the busy shore. Elizabeth told herself she was glad; an unpleasant encounter had therefore been avoided. She did not wonder where his next destination was, nor whether she would see him at the town hall or wherever they distributed passports; she was in fact relieved to be rid of him.

  Chapter 10.

  Darcy held back until he saw Miss Bennet disembark the ferry, before venturing out himself. He pretended to be fussing with the latch on his trunk, but Richard watched him with an unnerving attitude of observation.

  The English army had already established a small headquarters in Le Havre, a rapid sign of the changing terms of the peace. It was in a tall old townhouse only two doors down from the French officers' headquarters, with the impression of fresh scrubbing and new paint that had perhaps not quite dried. Darcy and Richard deposited their trunks at the nearest reputable looking inn on the way, and walked directly there.

  "I must report in," Richard said, "and may receive instructions. You are sure you do not want to refresh yourself at the inn?"

  Darcy was sure. As long as Richard was willing to have him along, he was here to serve.

  While Richard attended the commanding officer, Darcy was left somewhat unceremoniously to wait in the hall. Young men in smart red uniforms passed him and nodded, and he nodded in return. Some of the men switched quickly between French and English, and seeing him, lowered their voices. Darcy thumbed through the French-English pocket phrasebook he had brought to amuse himself, and shifted from foot to foot.

  At last Richard emerged with a sheaf of papers, and two folded papers in heavy , one of which he handed to Darcy. "This is a pass of safety – we will need it to travel outside the town limits," he said.

  Darcy opened it: it carried the signature of one Major-General Wright, of the British Army, and a stamp of the "department du Le Havre", with Bonaparte's emblem.

  "How the world is changing," he said, and tucked it into his inner pocket.

  The King's army seemed to be unperturbed by trouble, settling in nicely in what had been an enemy territory. It was astonishing how rapidly two nations could move from all-out war, to the semblance of friendship. It had been just two months since the peace was signed, and already the army had a formal office in French land and there was a British embassy in Paris. If such strife could be overcome in such a short time, then why not – but Darcy cut short his ruminations on human nature when Richard led them outside, blinking, into the afternoon sunlight.

  "It is nearly two o'clock," Richard said, looking at his pocket watch. "I have been given a contact here in Le Havre, who I will speak to directly – but I must go alone. Have you enough to do to occupy yourself?"

  "I had an idea I might begin to question the inns and hostelries, and see if anyone had seen them."

  Richard looked at him sceptically, and in particular the phrasebook, which Darcy was still holding in his hand. Darcy bristled. He was not used to being perceived as the junior partner. Indeed his relationship with Richard had been all awry since their arrival at Rosings at Easter, and the discovery that Miss Bennet was in residence at Hunsford. Since then, Richard had been all easy manners and confidence, while Darcy tripped over his own tongue, could not find the words to speak, and seemingly produced the opposite impression of his intention wherever he went.

  "Oh, very well!" Darcy said. "I will return to the inn, have a glass of wine, read the French newspaper and do absolutely nothing until your return."

  Richard's expression did not mitigate its scepticism, until Darcy folded his own features into a veil of benign placidity.

  "I will not be long," Richard said. "Speak to no one you do not have to – and do not show anyone that pass."

  "You may rely on me," Darcy said, and bowing slightly, the two cousins parted.

  Darcy began to walk towards their inn; but as soon as Richard's footsteps had disappeared behind him, he waited several minutes, then turned in another direction altogether.

  If Richard expected him to sit peacefully in an inn with his boots up while action was needed, his cousin did not know him at all.

  Chapter 11.

  When they reached the town, Elizabeth found the first step in her plan had already gone awry. Her presence in Le Havre was pas de probleme, not a problem at all – in fact she, and other English civilians, were p
ositively welcome. But she would need a pass in writing from the head of the department to travel outside the city limits, and that could only be achieved through the intervention of the Foreign Office – or the army. Did Mlle. Bennet know anyone at the Foreign Office? She did not. And Mlle. Bennet was clearly not a member of the army. Mlle. Bennet could apply for a special provisional pass; but this would take several days to reach the embassy in Paris, and then to return. The official pushed his spectacles up his nose and told Elizabeth she would have to wait.

  "Ten days?" Elizabeth repeated incredulously. "I am sorry, sir, but I cannot wait that long. My sister is in grave danger and indeed may already be lost." The man looked blankly at her, and appealed to Louise, who looked annoyed at the man's obvious stubbornness, and translated rapidly. Elizabeth could not catch every word, but it did seem that she was capturing the situation accurately: her sister lost, time of the immediate essence, no days to lose, they must be on the move immediately.

  "Je suis désolé," the official said, in French Elizabeth could just pick out, "but I cannot help you." He shrugged. "Perhaps if you come back tomorrow – my superior will be in then, and will help you fill out the forms."

  "At what time?"

  "Ten o'clock."

  "May I give you my name?" Elizabeth did not intend to be put off. She wrote it out, and saw that the official wrote it next to the time in the appointment book. "Merci," she said, fitting the new word uncomfortably in her mouth.

  The passport office was on a busy but respectable looking street, with several inns. A fruit and vegetable stand was across the street, managed by a friendly homely man with a large belly and a larger moustache. A small tavern was next door. Unlike the English form, this establishment had windows and doors all open to the street, allowing the air and sunlight to circulate inside, and the patrons to sit as if outdoors, but sheltered from any rain and wind. The drinkers looked relaxed and respectable. It was a pleasant prospect, and Elizabeth very much looked forward to unpacking at their own inn.

  One of the shops was a stationer's. Elizabeth paused by the door.

  Since her rapid departure from England, she had not had time to acquire paper for letters. While she did not flatter herself to think that this adventure would be of any interest to anyone else outside her immediate family, Elizabeth was thoughtful enough that it might be something she would like to look back on. Many of the other women who had travelled to France, whose writings she had read – had written letters and kept diaries, and Elizabeth had an inkling of that too – keeping a record of this time. Already France was impressing itself in whirling proportions in her mind, and Elizabeth was having trouble keeping straight what had happened this morning and what had happened yesterday. Whenever she wrote a letter – to Jane, or Charlotte – it had the double effect of helping her sort out her own tangled thoughts.

  "Nothing too expensive," she murmured to herself as they entered the shop. A quarter-hour later, she left in possession of a fine sturdy quire, more than enough to write anything she might fancy, with thick covers to keep the pages in place and well protected.

  The first inn they knocked at was full, but the second welcomed them: the landlords were a rosy-cheeked couple, him with a fastidious attitude of austere elegance, her with lightly powdered hair and an air of faded glamour that was somehow all the more glamorous for being faded. Their room was small but comfortable, and the cost quoted extremely reasonable. Their bags were taken upstairs, and the two women settled in the sitting room and ordered an early dinner.

  French wine was cheap, and their purse stretched to a glass of the vin blanc du maison. It was brighter than the wines Elizabeth was used to, fruity and grassy. Everything here was the same but different. Even the smell of the sea in the air, which permeated the air slightly even within the walls of the inn, was somehow a French sea air rather than an English one.

  The dinner was fresh caught fish – what Elizabeth would have called Dover sole, but the French called something else – and a white sauce with garlic and lemon. Elizabeth had heard the French used a great deal of garlic in their cooking, and was nervous, but the flavour was excellent and the fish very fresh. She was surprised at how hungry she was, but travelling was always hungry work, and they had travelled far indeed.

  Louise, usually a friendly source of gossip and conversation, was unusually quiet. After working their way through half the fish in silence, Elizabeth said, "Do you have any friends or family here?"

  Faint red spots reappeared on Louise's cheeks. "I do not know," she said. "I hope so."

  Elizabeth, embarrassed, retreated: "It is a beautiful city," she murmured, and returned to the dinner.

  Her whole mind was thinking of Lydia. It was not so bad to have a few days in Le Havre, she decided, as she likely would have needed the time anyway to track her down. The town was small but Elizabeth's first impressions had been that it was a noisy bustle, and trying to find one girl who had passed through a day or two earlier would be difficult. She supposed their first call the next morning would be to the other inns that hired rooms to foreigners, to ask whether they had seen an English girl of Elizabeth's look and colouring, in the company of a tall English man with blond hair. If that did not point them towards any leads, they would call at the coach station, to ask the drivers if they had seen an English woman in the company of a tall, handsome man. If they could not track Lydia down that way, they may have hired a private carriage, and again Elizabeth could ask any of the proprietors in town whether they had hired a carriage to an English couple travelling together, or an English man.

  The weight of the quest before them fell on Elizabeth, as well as her own rashness in sailing across the Channel alone to a strange country with only their maid for companionship. If she had been really thoughtful of Lydia's safety, and Jane's happiness, Elizabeth might have waited for her uncle, and worked on her father to persuade him to travel here in search of Lydia, perhaps taking someone sensible like their uncle with him. But Elizabeth had been so hasty, and so impatient that Lydia would be lost forever in the grandness of the Continent, that she had run off without so much as a proper farewell, jaunting off on an adventure that, Elizabeth was now realising, alone in an inn with only her maid, could very well lead to her own discredit and disrepute.

  Elizabeth drew in a deep breath, and tried to square her shoulders. Louise was looking similarly lost in thought, and Elizabeth wondered if she was thinking with regret of her decision to accompany her mistress back to her home country. It could not be easy for her to return and see it so changed, Elizabeth realised with a surge of sympathy, and whatever her family situation had been before the Terror and before Napoleon, it must be irrecoverable now. Did she have sisters? Elizabeth had never asked. What would her life have been like if she had been forced to flee Longbourn?

  Her mother often upbraided her for being quick and impatient, and while Elizabeth had always found this a preposterous complaint, she felt the weight of these recriminations falling on her now. It was a silly decision made in haste, and the odds that she would be able to find Lydia and Wickham all on her own, in that moment seemed so great as to be insurmountable.

  After the dinner had settled, and another glass of wine consumed, Louise revived a little; she began to talk about her memories of the area, the best foods and wines, a girl she had known from Le Havre who had the most ridiculous hat. Elizabeth was relieved; and listening and gossiping, the girls passed their first evening in France.

  *

  Before retiring to bed, Elizabeth borrowed a pen and ink from the landlady, and began to write – not a letter, for she could not think whom to address her thoughts to, but a diary.

  Impressions of France., she wrote, and stopped.

  Food. The French food is much like ours, but lighter and with more complexity in the sauces. I watched Mme. Coquille strain our white sauce five or six times – I thought this was a quirk of our Louise but it seems to be the habit here. Fish is everywhere which
is to be expected. I have seen so much at a table in London, but not every day. This is the difference between a country larder, a city larder and a sea town.

  Clothing. The men wear trousers cut shorter – I do not know if this is the fashion, or simply the result of there being so many sailors here. The cloth is often rough and the effect is not pleasing. The ladies mostly dress as we do, but some are wearing frocks cut after the Grecian style, with narrower skirts and high waists. I would attribute this to making a virtue of necessity, due to a shortage of cloth – something we have experienced as well in England – but it seems to be the wealthier ladies wearing this style, so I must say it is fashion. And it would be beyond me to attribute virtue to some of the quite shocking bodices I have seen in this style.

  Elizabeth put her pen down. This was dull – this was insipid. She read widely and had strong tastes in literature, and could tell boring words from a half-hearted recitation of attributes; Elizabeth crossed out the lines and began again, with the second reason for writing in the front of her mind.

  To see Mr. Darcy again was astonishing and I think only a little more embarrassing for me than for him, for he looked quite amazed. I did not know I would be in such esteemed company – I would have packed a better dress if I had known the ton of society would be running over to France as well. I confess I do not know what to think of him. He is as arrogant and rude as ever, yet now that I have the eyes to look for it, I can see those aspects of him that his letter indicated must be true: his attentiveness to those in his care and company (for every glass around him was kept topped up, and he left the best part of the shoulder of beef to the lady beside him), his silence not only from arrogance but from not being easy in speaking (that terrible joke he attempted! thank goodness his cousin was there to rescue him).

  Elizabeth's thoughts were running ahead of her pen, and she stopped to dip it in the ink well again and blot it before continuing to write more carefully.