For Miss Bennet's Honour

by Sophia Woodford

  "Merci," the dressmaker said in a desultory way, and flipped to the front of the book where clients' addresses were written down. Elizabeth carefully wrote out Lydia's address, and put it in her reticule, repeating it to herself.

  "Could you give me directions?" But Mme. Beaucoupe only gestured vaguely to the left, then the right, without looking up. Elizabeth, sensing she could get no more out of her, retreated to the street to follow as well as she could.

  The street was dirtier than the others, the houses more run-down. With her heart in her mouth, Elizabeth knocked at the door. Number 12. There was a rustling behind the curtains, which stopped suddenly, and then the house was silent.

  "Oh, for heaven's sake," Elizabeth muttered to herself. "Lydia!" she called, raising her voice. No response. "Lydia, it is Elizabeth. If you do not open this door at once I shall – "

  But Elizabeth did not have to think of what she should do, for the door was flung open, and her youngest sister threw her arms around her and pulled her inside.

  "Lizzy!" cried Lydia. "It's such a shock to see you, I cannot even begin to say. What on earth are you doing in Le Havre – have you brought any tea? And have you seen my dear Mr. Wickham?" Her thoughts flitted so capriciously that Elizabeth could hardly follow them. "Look – here is our home!" Lydia threw her arms open. "Shay Wickham."

  It was not the finest room. The curtain drawn against the afternoon light was dingy and worn, though Elizabeth had to admit, not more so than at their own inn. The furniture was finely balanced between antique and simply falling apart. It was unsurprising that Lydia had not bothered to do a modicum of tidying, and from the look of it their housemaid had not taken up the slack.

  But there were touches of homeliness: Wickham's badge on the mantel, with Lydia's ribbon draped around it; a portrait of a young girl on the wall, looking out at the sea, that Elizabeth recognised as having Lydia's taste.

  "It looks very fine," Elizabeth said.

  Lydia beamed with pride. She was wearing a red dress of cheap silk that nevertheless suited her – Lydia had always had a good figure. She was talking animatedly, and Elizabeth marvelled at her good humour despite the ridiculousness of their situation.

  "Oh, Louise! Hello!" Lydia said brightly. "You're looking well."

  "We have been very much looking for you!" Louise said in an aggravated voice. Lydia only laughed; Louise was Lydia's favourite, and was allowed to take such liberties.

  "France is absolutely wonderful, I'm so astonished we haven't been before. You never said!" Lydia said. "The bread is simply divine, and the gentlemen and officers are all so friendly and courteous. Their manners are very free!"

  "I expect they are," Louise said. She addressed herself to Elizabeth. "I do not know how long we might be staying in town? If it is to be longer than three days, I propose to find a laundry, as I do not think we will have enough for longer, and," bobbing her head to acknowledge the awkwardness of the situation, "I do not know how long Miss Lydia intends to stay."

  "Miss Lydia!" Lydia bellowed, looking pleased with herself. "I can correct you there, Louise – Miss Lydia is Mrs. Wickham now!" And she presented a rather gaudy looking gold ring on her left hand.

  Elizabeth turned away. She was embarrassed on Lydia's behalf, much more than her sister was herself. To be looking for approval from their housemaid!

  That her sister was safe and her vivaciousness undamaged was more a relief than she would like to say. Lydia was safe, was talkative, was free, and from the look and feel of her, in robust health. That a lawful marriage had taken place was likewise greatly reassuring. But with that lawful marriage came an inextricable linking of her family to Wickham.

  "Tell me everything," Elizabeth said, to cover her reaction, and Lydia happily obliged.

  "Well," Lydia began breathlessly. "It all started at the dancing in Meryton – of course you will have worked that out by now. Oh, to have seen Papa's face! It serves him right for saying I was too young and too silly to dance with the officers – but I've shown him. Dear Wickham suggested it – it was incredibly romantic, he was holding my hand in the cloak room and no one saw! – not even a servant! Dear Wickham said that with the peace and all, it would be a wonderful time to visit Paris. Well, I am not stupid, Lizzy, no matter what Papa says, and I know a hint when I hear one, and know how to take advantage of it too. 'Oh', I said, 'I should dearly love to visit Paris, for I have heard so much about it' – which is true, you know, you do hear an awful lot about everything with the war, and all – and dropped that great hint in his way. He's very quick to action, my Wickham, and no sooner had I spoken but he seized my hand, like I said, and said that he had loved me from afar all this time, from the moment he saw me – which anyone could tell you was true, I could have told him that – and that there was nothing for it but he must marry me, and we might do it to-night! So off we went in one of the officer's carriages – the funniest thing, but Wickham said he wouldn't mind – and changed at post down to London, and the next day quick as you like to Southampton, where we took ship for France, and the captain married us! Married at sea! Oh Lizzy, have you ever in your life heard of anything more wonderfully romantic?"

  Lydia clasped her hands and looked beatifically at her sister for approval.

  "Very romantic," Elizabeth agreed, her head spinning. "I am so glad to see you well, Lydia – and congratulations, of course. Is – is there tea? Have you seen much of the town?" Elizabeth could not think more than in platitudes of small talk.

  Lydia arranged her skirts on the chair, and waved for a cup of coffee to the housemaid who had reluctantly appeared. "It's very tres the done thing," she confided, "no tea to be found anywhere. Oh – and a biscuit – s'il vous plait!" With coffee in one hand, and a pastry in the other, Lydia began to rattle off everything she had learned about the town, about the situation, about France, about which officers were secret Girondins, about the way the ladies cut their dresses and wore their hair. There was no opportunity for Elizabeth to interrupt, or expectation for her to contribute; and Elizabeth was glad for this, as it gave her the opportunity to calm her mind and think.

  How very unchanged Lydia was, still prattling and giddy, with no intimation that the sacred act (or indeed any more earthly one) had taken place. In a flash, Elizabeth felt how very final and inextricable the act of marriage was. She had seen her parents' marriage over the years. Even as young as she was, she had watched the affection between them slowly dry up, like a stream running dry after the first melts of snow have gone. Into contempt and, worse, boredom. Elizabeth knew her father was unhappy, but looking at the newly married and gushing Lydia, Elizabeth thought for the first time of how unhappy her mother might be. Now Lydia was blooming, proud of her new acquisition, but to such a man as Mr. Wickham! Could their marriage ever be happy with time?

  "But what are you wearing?" Lydia said, looking at Elizabeth in appalled horror. "You look as if you've been wearing a frock to travel in! This is France, Lizzy, and if you don't have something fine no one is going to dance with you tonight!"

  "Tonight?"

  "At the ball, silly." Lydia touched a reflexive hand to her hair, the very mention of a ball spurring her to check that her coiffure was still in place. "The officers' ball. They're holding it at the town hall to, oh, encourage brotherhood or something like that. Simply everyone will be there – our officers, French officers to dance with, French girls to speak with, everyone. You must get a better gown, Lizzy, you really must!"

  Louise looked over her shoulder at Elizabeth's simple dress, now rather dusty from all their walking, and raised an eyebrow.

  "I do not have the money to buy a dress," Elizabeth said pointedly, "and certainly not in time for tonight."

  "Then you must borrow one of mine," Lydia said. Elizabeth looked at the difference in their figures, and laughed; but Louise was already looking at them with a light in her eye, and the impression of an imaginary pin in her mouth.

  "Oh, very well," Elizabe
th said. After the day she had had, an officers' ball in a strange town, where she knew no one but a foreign officer, his unkind cousin, and her scandalously newlywed sister, would be child's play.

  "Frocks are so cheap here, you know, it's such a funny thing," Lydia said, opening the wardrobe. Elizabeth bit her tongue. "Beer nearly twice as expensive, or so dear Wickham says. And not a side of beef to be found for love nor money! But here – see my fine things!"

  In her short time in Le Havre, Lydia had done very well – a sea of blue, red and green, with here and there a yellow trim peeping out. Elizabeth reluctantly selected one of the least garish, a light blue frock of washed silk with green trim. She held it up and Louise examined it sceptically. "We must take in – here," she said, pointing to the sides of the bodice, where the cloth had been cut for Lydia's rather more generous frame. "And take up the hem of course. The ball begins when?"

  Lydia looked at the clock. "Hours and hours," she said breezily, "the dancing will not begin until eight o'clock at the very earliest."

  It was three o'clock in the afternoon. Louise exhaled an aggravated sigh, found a sewing box, installed Elizabeth on a footstool, and set to work.

  Chapter 16.

  Darcy walked back to his rooms with a heavier tread than he had started out with. His feet were aching from walking all over Le Havre. Following the lead of the ferryman, he had inquired all through town about rooms where a young English girl might take up with an officer – with no result.

  He had started with the inns closest to the harbour. The first was a fine inn, somewhat shabby around the edges but well built and with fine fixtures; it was no surprise to Darcy that the newly minted Wickhams had not chosen to stay there. The second and third catered to single men only, with slight affront from the landlady of the third that he had even dared to suggest such a thing.

  "C'est une bonne establishment!" she said sharply. "You English all think you can sweep in here with your immoralities and we will not bat an eye. I keep a good house, a moral house! You soldiers are all alike."

  Darcy did not think it would be worth protesting that he was not intimating any immorality, and in fact was not even a soldier; from only a few hours' walking through the streets of Le Havre, he suspected the lady had good reasons to believe as she did. It was a finer port town than many, with clean streets and a conscientious populace; but no town can keep a standing army of soldiers and seamen for long without some unruly behaviour.

  The fourth yielded a more promising lead: a tall English girl and a fair-haired soldier had been seen together, but the landlady had turned them away, as they did not have cash, and furthermore the provenance of the marriage licence was doubtful. Darcy appreciated the conscientious attention to public morality, but could not help but wish that the innkeepers of Le Havre had been a little more pliable. That landlord had turned the couple away, but not without directing them to a less scrupulous institution, towards the unsavoury side of the harbour.

  Those that had not laughed in his face had looked at him appraisingly, and by the fourth or fifth Darcy had stopped bothering to correct their rather insulting misapprehension.

  If Wickham was still in Le Havre, there would be tomorrow to find him; if not, Richard's contact would hopefully bear fruit and at least be able to point them where to direct their search. That could all happen tomorrow. For now, Darcy simply wanted to sit in his room with a large glass of brandy – and put up his feet.

  His landlady was ironing sheets in the front room when he entered, a charming domestic sight that made Darcy long for his restful bed at Pemberley.

  "Bienvenue," she said brightly. "Would you like anything pressed for tonight? I expect you will be going to the grand fete with all the other English gentlemen?"

  The mere idea of a fete made Darcy want to shoot his own feet off. "No, no thank you," he said. "Just dinner at the usual time please – and may I have a glass of brandy?"

  "It will be up directly," she said. "I am surprised. It will be a very grand occasion – I think all the officers in town. It would be so impressive to see them!"

  Darcy passed a hand over his eyes. "I expect so," he said. "Thank you for the brandy." He walked up the stairs and eased his off his walking boots.

  Three-quarters of an hour later, Darcy's glass was nearly empty and he reached to loosen his cravat. Where could the Wickhams be – and what on earth was Elizabeth Bennet doing here in France? It was not, of course, fully unusual for women to travel – but surely she would at least have taken a companion. Miss Bennet did not lack for company or friends. Nothing about her behaviour was sensible.

  "Oh, hell," Darcy swore, and put his brandy glass on the table. He leaned down to pull his shoes on, and brushing the front of his waistcoat, undid his cravat to re-tie it more crisply.

  If all the officers in town would be at the ball tonight, someone might be able to help his hunt for the Wickhams. As Richard had not yet returned from his search, Darcy did not know whether he would be there – and it was up to him to do all he could to help.

  Chapter 17.

  Lydia could not afford a carriage, and Elizabeth did not know where to hire one even if she did have the money, so the girls put on their walking shoes and carried their dancing slippers in their hands, and strolled the ten minutes to the town hall. The night was warm and pleasant, the dark blue sky dotted with stars. The town hall – a rough and ready building, damaged by the Revolution – had been repurposed into a heavenly ballroom. Draperies hung from the balconies, made of the military banners of the regiments there, both French and English – the English were more colourful, but the French were stitched more finely.

  The floor was more uneven and worn than the floor even in Meryton, but the hall was grander. Le Havre was a major port, and for a hundred years, in this hall the mayors had entertained visiting dignitaries – officers, other mayors, the aristocracy and perhaps even the king. The room had a height and light that was belied by its shabby outward appearance; the ceilings were high and proud, and the overall effect was old, comfortable spaciousness. It was a room that had been used many times by many people.

  Elizabeth entered on Lydia's arm, and took all the space in with a wondering look.

  The men were much more plentiful than the women – understandable, as it was a military town. Lydia was evidently recognised by several of the French, and some of the women. Elizabeth found herself presented to an officer and his wife; a regimental musician from Aix; the younger brother of a corporal; and all of them asking Lydia for a dance.

  "Mais oui!" Lydia giggled, and before Elizabeth could blink her sister was swept away.

  Elizabeth brushed her borrowed skirts and looked around for someone she recognised. The ladies did not seem hesitant to begin talking to the men, and maybe this was the famed French equality that they spoke so highly of. But the officers to whom she had been introduced were all occupied with other girls, and Lydia was second woman in the top set, and would be occupied for some time.

  It is a rare gift to see yourself thoroughly through others' eyes, and one of the best ways to do this is through travel. A new place picks you up and sets you down again. Elizabeth, who in England had such usual companions as Jane and Mary to compare herself against, thought herself to be more than usually fond of balls and dancing; although if she had to choose between four hours' dancing and four hours' reading she would be hard pressed. But away from all her sisters for the first time in her life, Elizabeth found herself not the sparkling one, not the amusing one, not even the one generally appreciated as pretty. With only Lydia as a comparison – and not the everyday Lydia, but a blossoming Lydia, confidently in her element Lydia – Elizabeth had to face the fact that she was nearly a wallflower.

  Finally, across the throng, Elizabeth recognised Colonel Fitzwilliam. He did not see her, but Elizabeth was glad that at least there was one friend here. The crowd parted slightly, and next to Col. Fitzwilliam was Mr. Darcy.

  Elizabeth almost
laughed at his face. She had thought he was proud in Meryton; that was nothing compared to the naked discomfort he bore now. After dinner on the ferry, she had begun to suspect Mr. Darcy was not naturally proud in company, and his face this evening seemed to prove it.

  She tried to close the distance between them. It was a crowded room, and took her several minutes to make her way through the crowd. By the time she was within speaking distance, Elizabeth had been stepped on, elbowed and jostled, and was more than a little aggrieved at the cousins for not noticing her first and making the effort to seek her out.

  The look of open pleasure on their faces went a long way to making it up, in particular the full relief on Mr. Darcy's face, which changed like a cloud passing away from the sun after a spring shower.

  "Miss Bennet," he said with a bow. "I am pleased to see you well."

  "And you," she said, returning his greeting. "Col. Fitzwilliam. I hope your stay in France has been pleasant?"

  "All the more so now," Col. Fitzwilliam said with a courteous bow. Elizabeth laughed. She knew from their exchanges at Rosings that he was even more unlikely to offer for her than his dour cousin, but she appreciated the compliment of the light flirtation.

  "I hope your dance card is not full," Col. Fitzwilliam said.

  "Indeed, you would be the first one on it," she admitted. "I do not know many gentlemen here."

  "In that case I must insist," he said. "With apologies, Darcy – oh, do not look so! You may have your turn after." And laughing, he squired Elizabeth away.

  The dance was a gentle one, leaving much time for conversation. Col. Fitzwilliam kept up an easy patter, and Elizabeth returned her side of the conversation with spirit. But she had the unnerving sense that unlike their chats at Rosings, this was somehow more of a performance; and halfway through the set, she decided to throw out a lure and see if it would take.