For Miss Bennet's Honour

by Sophia Woodford

  "Thank you for your welcome," Elizabeth said, withdrawing her hand and giving their host a perfectly precise curtsey. "We are honoured. Your town is very beautiful."

  "You are too kind." He drew her to the table. "Please – as a guest of honour, you must sit at the top of the table."

  M. Mercier sat beside her, with a middle-aged French woman on the far side of him, tall and handsome. Her face was lightly powdered, and her eyes were quick. She had a broad smile and an easy laugh, and Elizabeth liked her immediately.

  Mr. Darcy found himself sitting beside her, and Elizabeth suppressed a sigh. It would not be too difficult after all, but for a long, formal dinner, she would much have preferred a new friend, or at least someone less challenging. But they were guests, and Elizabeth would try to make up her share of the conversation.

  Wine was poured, a rich Chardonnay. The land was wide and hilly, and apple trees were everywhere. The vineyards must be near.

  Elizabeth was relieved to see Lydia sitting between Mr. Darcy and the Colonel. Although it was surely impolite to not be mingling more with their hosts, Elizabeth was terrified that Lydia would do or say something to cause an international incident. Visions of being detained, arrested or worse were in her head. "My sister does not speak much French," she explained.

  M. Mercier looked at her with a piercing gaze; but as Lydia immediately verified this by attempting to introduce herself to the abbot sitting across from them at the table, he could not counteract her.

  Across from Darcy at dinner was an old French military man. He was surprised to see him sitting next to an abbot. He thought all men of the church had been pursued in the Terror, but here they were talking and joking with each other.

  While the seating was mixed sexes, the French ladies were talking animatedly.

  "You have a beautiful home," Elizabeth said to M. Mercier. He smiled.

  "It is not my home," and Elizabeth was confused. Perhaps the lady to his left – ? "It is," and he used a word she did not recognise.

  "I'm sorry? Rest – "

  "Restaurant," he repeated. "I do not think you have them. Like an inn, but more formal – you see the care the chef takes." He illustrated this by serving her a small portion of bavette from the platter before them.

  "It's a wonderful idea," Elizabeth said, cutting into the meat. Indeed, it was cooked and rested perfectly, flavourful and tender. "To not rely on the vagaries of who happens to have hired a good chef. It is a terrible thing when a dear friend keeps a poor cook."

  "I could not agree more," M. Mercier said. "You would know, I expect, being so recently married?"

  "I am not married," Elizabeth said in confusion.

  "Ah," M. Mercier said, "my mistake." He did not look as if it had been his mistake at all. "It is your sister, then?"

  Elizabeth stared him squarely down. After a long moment, M. Mercier smiled and shrugged, and turned to introduce the lady on his left.

  The lady was Mme. Fournier, a citizen of the town whose husband ran a bookshop. "Ah!" Elizabeth said. "Then I must make your acquaintance immediately! I had been wondering…"

  An hour into the meal, and several glasses of wine, Elizabeth was feeling great warmth towards the people and nation of France. There was nothing in this town that was supported by the newspaper reports she had read. The food was rich and excellent – butter and cream in nearly every dish. The people were warm and friendly, and well read. It was certain that peace not only could exist, but must exist, between these two sister nations.

  "Have you seen the cathedral?" Mme. Fournier said, breaking off their conversation about Mrs Edgeworth's latest novel, which had not yet been translated into French. "It is a great sight – I am pleased it was spared."

  Next to her, M. Mercier shuffled a little in his seat. Elizabeth noticed this, and demurred: "I have not yet seen it, we have been only a day in town. It has the heart of Richard Couer-de-lion, I believe?"

  "That has been removed," M. Mercier said.

  "Oh – where?"

  "It was removed by people who do not think too kindly of kings," he said coldly.

  The conversation moved on, and Elizabeth was glad. She was embarrassed to see that, once again, Lydia was getting on slightly better than she was. A girl her own age across the table spoke English, and they were engaged on the subject of the opera house.

  "You must come see a play," she said. "We are staging a comic opera – a new one, you know – "

  Lydia clapped her hands. "Oh, do let's!" she said. "Lizzy, shall we?"

  "Let us see how dear tickets may be," Elizabeth said quietly.

  But M. Mercier heard her. "But you must be my guests," he said immediately. "The French opera is the best in the world, and the Rouen opera is the best in France."

  "We may not be staying here long," Elizabeth said cautiously. "I do not know my companions' plans."

  "And I must disagree with my friend," Mme. Fournier said. "The finest opera in France is in – Toulouse."

  "Where my friend was born, and where her sister is the star of the Opera des les Pyrenees," M. Mercier said, smiling. "But I am pleased to say I believe that is one of the only areas where we disagree."

  "Is that true?" Elizabeth said to Mme. Fournier, ready for a joke.

  Mme. Fournier looked at him, inclining her head. "It is true that we are friends," she said. "It is true that I do not agree with him on the subject of – gardening."

  "Ah, yes. Annelise does not agree that a garden must be looked after," M. Mercier said. He took a sip of wine and looked at Elizabeth. "She believes the natural course is best. While I say a garden must be pruned and weeded – otherwise the plants which contribute nothing, but only take from the soil, will overgrow and strangle the others. We cannot all choke to death. It is better to choke a few." Elizabeth began to understand that this change of subject was not a joke at all.

  "Perhaps," Mr. Darcy said. Elizabeth was surprised to hear his voice – he was no longer the silent presence over her shoulder that she had come to expect. "But weeding must be done carefully, and pruning even more so. It is not well to trample so many to death in the earth, in search of, perhaps, a few remaining stems. Those will show themselves in time; and you may weed them then."

  M. Mercier looked at him appraisingly. "By the time they show themselves it may be too late," he said. "They will have choked the smaller ones already."

  "Yet all this talk of weeding is irrelevant, if the planting and sowing are neglected," Elizabeth said. "You must plant the best seeds, at the right time. That is the best way to make sure a garden is healthy."

  Mr. Darcy looked at her in mild amazement, and she realised too late that, engaged with the topic of discussion, she had committed the faux pas of participating in a conversation about politics. She did not intend to insult their host; it was even worse that they were abroad, as she did not know the French customs.

  But M. Mercier did not seem to find anything odd about her contribution, and seemed to consider it.

  "Yes," he conceded. "But it does not matter what you sow, if the soil is contaminated."

  "But I would argue that no soil can be fully contaminated," Elizabeth said, warming to the subject. She raised her own glass. "Look at your vineyards. They have made us this excellent wine."

  "We do," M. Mercier said, smiling at her compliment.

  "And the reason for this is that your soil is ancient," she said. "It is rich and full of nourishment. Your vines have the benefit of experience and history to draw from, and any new grape that is introduced, is introduced carefully – with attention, and judgment, and husbandry." She was aware that the table was listening to her, and her cheeks were warm, but she did not mean to cede her ground. "To allow weeds to grow is, I agree, no way to manage. But we should not discount the benefit of tradition and heritage. It is not all bad – what is needed for any gardener is wisdom and good judgment."

  "We should all be so lucky to have such wisdom," M. Merc
ier said, "but how to find it and install it – there is the question."

  "Myself, I can support Miss Bennet's observations in one way," Mr. Darcy said, interjecting smoothly and lightly. "English wine is undrinkably atrocious."

  M. Mercier laughed, and raised his glass. "Let us drink to that. To atrocious English wine."

  Elizabeth raised her glass, and met Mr. Darcy's eyes.

  "Well parried," he said under his breath.

  For some reason that made her face even more hot than it had been.

  "Let us move on to something less controversial," Mme. Fournier said, laughing at M. Mercier, "marriage."

  "Oh, Annelise," he said. He was laughing too, but his eyes, Elizabeth noticed, were not smiling at all.

  There was only a small amount of dancing after dinner, in the side room of the restaurant, and Elizabeth had seen enough of the French style to decline. She smiled, but she had no desire to waltz that night. Col. Fitzwilliam and Lydia took part in good spirits, and Mr. Darcy stood across the room in silence until Mme. Fournier coaxed him playfully into a light set, with little movement, which he participated in with grace.

  After watching the figures for several more sets, Elizabeth realised she had left her shawl in the dining room. It was only a few feet away, not worth calling a servant, and Elizabeth slipped out to retrieve it, crossing the hallway in a light tread.

  "…do not believe it can be him," she heard.

  Elizabeth frowned. Her French was still poor, but with concentration she was beginning to understand it in conversation.

  "It must be. Can you think of another English militia man arriving alone, here?"

  Someone came up behind her and she turned.

  "Miss Bennet," Mr. Darcy said. "You left the room suddenly – "

  "Hush," she said, without thinking. Then she blushed; she had been impolite. But Mr. Darcy, far from looking affronted, was silent immediately, and looked around to see what she was attending to.

  "How can you trust them?" This was the voice of Mme. Fournier. "These English pretend to be friendly, but they are still the same."

  "It is more embarrassing for them, if it is the man they're looking for," a man said. That was certainly M. Mercier. "To be held for such a small amount."

  Elizabeth closed her eyes, frustrated that her understanding had not magically improved despite so many days' practice. They seemed to be discussing a person, of dubious identity, being held – somewhere.

  "I think they know where Wickham is," she whispered. Mr. Darcy nodded. "It sounds as if he's in prison."

  "We – oh!"

  Elizabeth opened her eyes.

  "Mademoiselle Bennet," M. Mercier said. "And Monsieur Darcy." He looked at them with calm, curious suspicion.

  Elizabeth knew that to be caught eavesdropping was worse than rudeness – it risked all their aims in travelling here. And M. Mercier was no fool.

  She could only think of one thing to do. With a moue of outrage, Elizabeth turned around and slapped Mr. Darcy full in the face.

  Chapter 26.

  Mr. Darcy reeled back, his face bearing the imprint of her hand, and Elizabeth wished a thousand apologies towards him.

  "How dare you!" she said coldly. "You think just because we are in a foreign land you can follow me into a corridor and – take liberties! Well, I am happy to find that there are gentlemen in France if there are none in England. Monsieur Mercier," she said, swivelling towards him and switching to French, "thank you so very much for look for me. Please, would you escort me back to the table? Mr. Darcy can look after himself."

  With her eyes, Elizabeth attempted to convey both the part she was playing, and her tremendous thanks and regrets for his unwilling consequences. Whether she was successful did not matter much; Mr. Darcy looked half angry, half in awe.

  M. Mercier, worryingly, looked more amused than before.

  "I am sorry to say it is a problem with the young men here as well," he said in English, offering Elizabeth his arm. "We will leave Monsieur Darcy to his own deliberations."

  They stepped into the dancing room, M. Mercier showing Elizabeth to an available seat. He leaned over her, only to pick up a fresh glass of cremant from the tray on the sill behind her, and hand it to her.

  "I will give you a clue," he whispered in French. "Your sister has married a scoundrel."

  "I could have told you that," Elizabeth said severely.

  M. Mercier bowed over her hand. "Do let me know if you would like to visit the opera," he said. "It would be my genuine pleasure." And he departed towards the door they had entered through.

  Mr. Darcy re-entered the room, the red mostly faded from his cheek, and approached Elizabeth and bowed stiffly. Elizabeth rose quickly in embarrassment.

  "I cannot imagine how I can begin to apologise," she began rapidly, but he waved her off.

  "It is no matter. I believe I understand," Mr. Darcy said. He almost smiled. "Indeed, I might choose to see it as a reflection on my good character that this is the first time my behaviour has induced such a response from a lady."

  "You are greatly mistaken, your behaviour did not merit it," Elizabeth said. "Indeed it was mine. I was committing the ignoble sin of eavesdropping – "

  "It is no matter," Mr. Darcy repeated, gently leading her to sit again, "I thought as much. It was not unwise, under the circumstances." He looked thoughtful, and absent-mindedly took a fresh glass of wine from behind her head and sipped it. "Prison, you overheard him say?"

  Chapter 27.

  The city gaol of Rouen was, like many others, half rubble. A strong medieval edifice, it had been broken through during the Revolution, and rebuilt unenthusiastically during the Terror. The result of this chequered recent history was that half of the cells were no longer usable, as the walls were unsecure, with large chunks of stone missing; half of those remaining, were open to the elements, with rain, snow and heat allowed to blast through; and only three remained that were in any way usable. These were separated by class of crime – one for violent offenders and thieves, one for debtors and drunks, and one reserved for women to allow them dignity.

  Fortunately, the appetite of the Rouennaise public for petty crime had been averted during the upheavals, or the magistrate was not keen to prosecute them. The company in the drunkards' cell consisted of two scrappy teenaged boys, now sobering up, who had been chained to opposite walls to stop them fighting; an old soggy man who looked as if he had never spent a more contented and restful night; and a ragged, unshaven man, in a red coat, who lifted his head and proved to be Wickham.

  The information Miss Bennet acquired sent Darcy and Richard to the gaol first thing the next morning. They found their quarry; and to Darcy's great relief, found that Wickham was being held for nothing more drastic than a gambling debt he had found himself unable to pay.

  At first, Richard nearly persuaded the gaoler to release Wickham into their custody. However, the man was much less keen when he worked out that it would not be into the custody of Col. Fitzwilliam's superior officer, as he had first understood, but to Col. Fitzwilliam himself and a private gentleman.

  He jabbed a finger on the desk, and spoke rapidly. "You said you could bring me a paper with Major-General Courtenay's signature on it," the French gaoler said. "I know the major-general, he is a dignified and good man. I trust him; I do not trust you."

  Richard attempted to assure him that he reported to the major-general.

  "So bring me his signature," the gaoler said. "I could be fired for this, vous savez?"

  Richard looked at Darcy. Darcy sighed and pulled out his pocketbook. "All, right, how much," he said.

  The gaoler looked at him with an appalled expression. "I am an honest man," he said. "I have served the city of Rouen for twenty-two years. And it hasn't been easy, you know. The mayor gave me an award. If I went around letting out every scamp just because someone could pay – do you know what that is? It's not liberté – it's one law for the rich
and another for the poor. That's what we've been fighting. For twenty-two years I have served the city," he said with emphasis.

  Darcy held up his hand in reassurance, quickly slipping the pocketbook away. "No, no, my mistake," he said. "I apologise. I, ah, I misunderstood the situation. I understood it was his gambling debts that needed to be paid off."

  "They certainly do!" the gaoler said.

  Darcy was beginning to get a headache. "And after they are paid – what then?"

  "Oh, after they are paid, he may be released," the gaoler said with relief. "My apologies, monsieur, I thought you were trying to bribe me."

  "I can't believe he got that idea," Richard muttered in his ear.

  "Excellent," Darcy said. He reached for his pocketbook again. "So, I will pay his debts, you will take the money, and he will be free to go."

  He and Richard watched as the gaoler took out a huge ledger and flipped to the page reading Germinal 1803. He ran a finger down the long column of names, frowning at the first characters, until he found Wickham's name, then ran the finger sideways to the figure.

  It was even a more paltry sum than Richard had suggested, and Darcy was embarrassed to find he had no franc coins small enough to cover the fee. "Can you break this?" he asked the gaoler, feeling very silly.

  "Oh, for heaven's sake," Richard said. He scrounged in his pockets for change and set it on the counter.

  The gaoler wrote out a careful receipt, noting Wickham's name from the ledger, the time and the date paid, and Richard and Darcy's descriptions. Over his hand and upside down, Darcy could read it: "deux Anglais, marron, marron, jeunes ages." He considered being indignant at this, but he supposed it was better than the alternative.

  This receipt the gaoler slapped down on the desk, and Darcy took it. "See you on the rhubarb!" the gaoler said cheerfully.

  Darcy blinked.

  "Excuse me?" he said.

  "You can come and collect him on the rhubarb," the gaoler said again, more slowly.

  Darcy edged towards Richard and spoke low out the side of his mouth. "Richard, am I going mad, or what the devil is he talking about?"