But this is no matter for I am sure he has changed completely in his mind towards me – which is no small blessing, she wrote quickly. I do not think I need to fear on that front.
Here she paused, and the freshly dipped pen made a spot on the page, which she hastily wiped up.
It was pleasing to see his cousin again, though he seemed preoccupied. I cannot believe that they are here for pleasure. I can only hope they do not discover why I am here, and what has occurred to bring me – it does not much signify but I find I do not like the idea of Mr. Darcy having something to support his poor opinion of my family. Not that he needs it!!
This last was underlined three times.
Although writing usually helped Elizabeth sort her mind, she found herself more perplexed than ever; and when the landlady knocked to ask whether she would require another candle, Elizabeth declined, and returned the pen and ink, left the paper to dry and went discontentedly to bed.
Chapter 12.
Elizabeth woke early.
She thought: I am in France!
The bed was a French bed; these sheets were French sheets; the curtains, French curtains; the paint on the wall was French paint. It was not very different to the paint on the walls at Longbourn, except for being a slightly yellower shade – but now Elizabeth knew that this was what French paint looked like.
She washed in the small basin with the jug of water the landlady left, and dressed in a simple blue dress that had the benefit of not needing Louise to lace her into it.
The landlady had kindly cleaned her pen, and laid it on the table with fresh ink and a small pot of coffee, gratis. Elizabeth sipped it as she wrote an easier letter to her uncle and father, c/o their inn at Southampton.
Dear Papa and Mr. Gardiner,
I expect you will miss this letter, as no doubt you will be on the next ferry from Southampton; I am very sorry that you did not make the sailing. Please be reassured that I am safe and well. The inns of Le Havre are safe and there are so many English travellers here it is like a miniature outpost of the Empire.
(This was an exaggeration, though Elizabeth had seen many fellow travellers.)
She hesitated before writing the next sentences, but there was nothing wrong on the face of it, and it would be odder if the information reached her family by other channels.
An amusing thing happened on the ferry on the way over. I encountered two English gentlemen of my acquaintance and one of yours, Papa – Mr. Darcy and Colonel Fitzwilliam, his cousin. My uncle has not had the pleasure of Mr. Darcy's acquaintance and I will leave it to you to sketch his character – I dare not do so in a letter. His cousin is charming, however I do not expect we shall meet again.
Please reassure Mother that I am doing my best to make all the French officers fall in love with me, although as I do not speak their language very well, it is difficult.
With best wishes and all my love,
E. Bennet
Elizabeth folded the letter, and tucked it into her reticule. She would ask the landlady for the address of the nearest post office, and then begin the search.
Chapter 13.
The young man behind the post office desk could not have been more than seventeen. His face was spotty, and when he saw Elizabeth he snapped to attention with an overserious expression that nearly made her laugh out loud.
"To London?" Elizabeth said. She wanted to practice her French speaking – she might never get the opportunity again to converse with so many people. "I am afraid I do not have the money to frank it, but the receiver will, ah, will give the money for it." Elizabeth's cheeks were hot – despite all her practice with Louise in the past few days, her speaking was not as good as she had hoped, in action.
"But of course, of very course," the post boy said, taking the envelope without looking at it, and smiling at her. "Simply to London? Ah – Mademoiselle has written the address. Of course – I will see it done immediately."
"Thank you very much," Elizabeth said. "Au revoir."
"I hope so," the boy said, and with a wink, revolved and spun into the back room.
"Was that right?" she asked Louise, who was laughing. "What I should have said?"
"I should think 'Adieu' – but that may be taken poorly now," Louise said. Considering the question, she looked thoughtful. "I do not know. Very much has changed."
It was nearly ten, and the two women walked along the high street to the passport office. The road was well maintained, and there was enough room on the walk that Elizabeth did not have to step into the gutter; a welcome change from London. Dirt was densely packed from many boots.
The new official behind the desk, thankfully, was more obliging than the other, and Elizabeth breathed an easy sigh of relief. There had still been no letter from the Foreign Office, but he was able to not only fill out the required documents, but also make out an application for a special emergency passport. This would only take three days, not ten, and allow Elizabeth to travel anywhere within a week's travel of Le Havre – which was most of northern France.
Just as he was about to push Elizabeth's documentation over the counter, the official looked up at Louise. "Is this the citoyenne who will sign for you?"
"I beg your pardon?"
"To make this passport application you must have the signature of a French citizen." The official indicated Louise. "Are you that citizen?" He used the formal vous. Louise looked surprised.
"Yes, I suppose so," she said.
The official pulled out a half-sheet of paper with lines printed on it. "Name?"
"De Vendôme. That is – Vendôme," Louise corrected herself. The official smiled, not unkindly, and wrote her surname. "First name?"
"Louise Jeanne."
He ran through her mother's name, place of birth, mother's place of birth, and so on, until he asked for her address. Louise looked at Elizabeth nervously. "I last lived in Paris."
Her full address?
Louise was silent.
"It's all right," Elizabeth began to say.
"My mistress was resident at the Hôtel Biron," Louise said quickly. "I do not know what it is called now."
"Merci very much," the official said. Whatever Louise had been fearing, it did not seem to matter to him. He stamped the paper, tore it carefully in half, handed one half to Elizabeth and kept the other. "I will see you in three days."
"Thank you – that is, au revoir," Elizabeth said. Louise beamed proudly.
When they were back out on the street, she turned to Louise. "Thank you for that, back there," she said.
"I am happy to help find Miss Lydia," Louise said. Colour was coming back into her face, and the ironic light that Elizabeth liked so much about her was back in her eye. "She is a bit stupid, of course, but that is no reason for her to be in such danger."
"All the same, thank you," Elizabeth said, smiling. "Now – I have a few ideas of where to start looking. Shall we go find the milliners?"
Chapter 14.
If Darcy were to search for a lost hound or sheep on his estate, he would begin at the last place it was seen, and work his way carefully out. Wickham and Lydia Bennet must have alighted at the harbour before moving on to anywhere else, so the harbour was where Darcy must go.
He sought the harbour-master, and was directed to a small sagging shack that looked as if it was about to tip into the sea. He knocked, and the door opened. Inside were a half dozen sailors, with salt-cured faces, and the sweet smell of tobacco.
"Is the harbour-master here?" Darcy said. His French was, he thought, passably good, although it had been a long time since he had used it; but the men stared at him in confusion, and a little amusement from one, until one of them peeled away and came to speak with him.
He was an old man of sixty or more, with a faded sea cap on his head and smoking a cheroot. "Who's the Englishman who's asking?" he said. His French was fluid, and accented in a way Darcy was not used to hearing, but with a little concentration he could
understand the man.
"I am Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy, a gentleman," he said. From his left there was a soft mocking whistle. Too late Darcy remembered that in this country, that was less the simple statement of identity that he had intended it to be, and more a declaration of a political stance – one that these men may not be entirely sympathetic to.
"I am looking for a countryman of mine," he said. "Er – my brother." Well, they had grown up together, and 'frere' had many meanings, not all of them literal. "He travelled through here about a week ago. I am, ah, worried he is in trouble, and I want to try and help him."
"There's been many English through this port since the peace," the old seaman said. "How would we know your brother? Look like you, does he?"
"Not much like me – we have a different mother," Darcy said. No need to mention that the father was different as well. The men nodded understandingly. Darcy almost laughed – trust the French to take that of all things in stride. "He is tall, about my height – but with fair hair. He would have been travelling with a woman. A young woman," he clarified. "And – he may have been wearing a British uniform. A red coat."
"The girl would be the trouble, I suppose," the seaman said. He looked at Darcy appraisingly. "And you, monsieur, are not one of those pressgangers looking for a deserter come to these shores, of course," he said. "Because we've had a fair few of those, and don't take kindly to English law coming to our land. A man in France is a free man, no matter who he was before. Liberté! Egalité!" The men behind him took up the call.
"No, no," Darcy said impatiently. "He can go to the devil for all I care, after I find him. He can desert or he can go to the devil. But I would like to see that the lady is done right by."
One of the men made a suggestion about how to do right by the English girl that even in Darcy's limited understanding of the regional dialect he could tell was improper, and the others laughed.
Darcy frowned. Whatever else, he had hoped that the code of honour among gentlemen would help him straight answers out of these men. Then he remembered what else had always helped him in England – money. "And I have five English pounds for anyone who can help me find them," he announced.
Figures clicked in the men's heads as they did the conversion to francs and centimes, and suddenly the sailors in the harbourmaster's house were very helpful indeed.
None of them had seen the couple Darcy described; but Tuesday's ferry from Southampton had been sailed by an English captain, who might have seen them; he was still in Le Havre, in fact even now drinking in the Mermaid's Tail, and the men nearly carried Darcy there on their shoulders. Darcy paid the leader, as promised, and resigned himself to making another withdrawal; he had hoped to use the letter of credit from his bank as little as possible, but this spy work was expensive stuff.
The captain was stocky and broad, like a mainmast himself, hunched over a glass of pale ale as tall and wide as he was. When the sailors explained Darcy's question, the captain signalled for another ale from the landlady, with a meaningful look at Darcy, who sighed and took out his wallet.
"Ay, a young English lass and a soldier," the captain said, taking a sip. "I ferried them all right. Desperate to marry, they were – or at least she was, hanging on his arm like anything. He was a little more hesitant like. Said he wanted to wait to get to shore, and do it in a church, where he said she could have a nice dress and all. But I wouldn't stand for that. My sister got into a spot of trouble with an unmarried man, a few years back, and I thought – not on my ship, you understand my meaning? So I took right care of it for them. Right then and there."
Darcy's heart was in his mouth. "You – you duelled with him?" he said. "Is he alive?" If Wickham were dead, that would certainly solve many of their immediate problems – although it would leave Miss Lydia unprotected and in a strange country. The image of a lost and frightened Elizabeth Bennet came into his head.
"Duelled with him?" the captain said, staring at him with open derision. "Do you take me for a bleeding idiot, risking life and limb to deal with a soldier on my own boat? I married them," he said. "Right there on the deck."
"Ah!"
"I said, you can do what you like on land, but you ain't sharing a cabin on my boat without you're wed, and there ain't one spare. And you ain't having mine. And furthermore, for a fact," the captain said, jabbing his finger at Darcy as if he were Wickham himself, "I ain't letting you off this ship until I know for a fact you're going to do right by her. For a fact. So the soldier lad came around to his senses and I married them. Right there on the deck," he said again, pointing at the tavern floor for emphasis.
Darcy's mind was racing. "Thank you, you've been most helpful," he said quickly. "You say you married them – do you happen to have a copy of the marriage certificate? Would it have been registered with the local parish on landing, or – ?"
But the captain shook his head. "The lady has the certificate," he said. "Bright girl, in the end. I have no doubt she'll keep it safe. I hope she is well," he said wistfully. "She was a bright little thing."
Darcy kept his opinions of Lydia Bennet's brightness to himself. "Would you be willing to sign your name to a piece of paper saying you married them?" he said. Heaven only knew if it would hold up in a court of English law, but at least it would be something.
"Aye, why not," the captain said. "Bring them back to me and I'll do it right off."
"Can you not do it now?" Darcy said impatiently.
The captain peered at him. "His brother, you say," he said suspiciously. "Wasn't raised right, that one. And you don't look much alike. How come you're so keen to find them? After the lady yourself, maybe? Well, it's too late for that."
"Nothing like that – we grew up together," Darcy said, but he had set the captain's scepticism running, and he could get no more out of him, except a promise to sign a license if the pair presented themselves to him a second time.
Then he drained his beer.
"Do you want to see the spot?"
"No thank you."
"Sea tour of the harbour? It's right interesting. Just two francs."
"No, thank you, you've been most helpful but I really must be going."
And excusing himself, Darcy stepped out of the tavern, closed the door and walked along the promenade by the harbour.
Married!
This was both useful and a complication.
If Wickham and Lydia Bennet were married by law, her reputation would be saved – at least, compared with the alternative. While there was nothing respectable about running off to France to marry, there was nothing unusually scandalous about it either; Darcy was certain more than one couple had been hastily wed under the same circumstances in the short time since travel had re-opened.
But was it better to be unmarried and ruined – or the wife of a traitor? Darcy's whole being revolted at the idea of a ruined girl, and at a man who could do such a thing. Yet if Wickham were tried and condemned for treason, a hasty marriage to an English girl on board ship would look bad – very bad. And if Miss Elizabeth Bennet were implicated – who had also travelled alone to France, just days later – Darcy's heart clenched at the thought.
What was Elizabeth Bennet doing in France? Despite his harsh words about her to Richard, Darcy knew he had been unfair. Nothing about Miss Bennet was thoughtless; that was the problem. Considered without the confusion of her presence, Darcy had to admit that Richard's suggestion might be right, and perhaps she was also on the trail of her sister and Wickham. It would still be an astonishingly reckless act – but one Darcy could not help but admire. Yet she was also placing herself in danger by association.
If Elizabeth Bennet were in France searching for her sister, finding them would mean finding Elizabeth again as well.
Darcy's steps quickened. Again he was heedless of Richard's warnings to stay put; he would overturn the whole town of Le Havre if he had to.
Chapter 15.
Elizabeth went straight to where she
expected Lydia would stop first: the haberdashers and milliners. There was a whole street of them in Le Havre, and she received directions from a kindly older woman with a knowing smile. One shop sold entirely ribbons, another fabric, another bonnets, another gentlemen's hats. Elizabeth hesitated briefly, then started at the ribbon shop.
The proprietor there said he had probably seen a tall English girl, but there had been so many; Le Havre was a popular town for visitors and one in particular had not imprinted herself on his memory. Elizabeth had no better luck in the fabric shop, nor the milliners.
After two hours, Elizabeth was tired and the heaviness of the task she had set herself fully presented itself to her. "We will search one more street, and then – " And then what? She did not think. Without finishing the sentence, Elizabeth pressed on, and Louise silently followed her.
A dressmaker's, shabbier than the rest, with chipping paint reading Madame Beau-coupe. "A tall English girl, you say?" she said. "Does she have a name?"
"Lydia Bennet," Elizabeth said, her heart in her mouth.
"Lydia – no, no Lydia Bennet," Mme. Beaucoupe said.
Nearly crying, Elizabeth turned to go. Unless – ? An inspiration struck her.
"Or perhaps a Lydia Wickham?" she said.
"Wickham!" The dressmaker looked as if she would spit on the ground. "Oui, I know her. Came into my shop buying everything on credit, and I've seen neither hide nor hair since then. Sent bills and everything, nothing. Not even returned. I have half a mind to go to that little tart's flat and knock her down."
"I can pay," Elizabeth said quickly. "Do you have her address?"
"Bills first," Mme. Beaucoupe said. She opened a heavy payment book and flipped to the end.
The figure she named made Elizabeth gasp – it was nearly all the money she had. But it was her best chance of finding her sister – and with Lydia's ways, if Elizabeth delayed another day or two her sister might already be gone. With a fast beating heart, Elizabeth counted out the sum that was due, and handed it to the dressmaker.
For Miss Bennet's Honour Page 5
