For Miss Bennet's Honour

by Sophia Woodford

  The gaoler took the calendar on his desk and turned it around, facing it towards the two men. He seemed to have remembered that he was talking to Englishmen, and adopted a slower pace and a louder tone. "We are in the month of Germinal," he said. "Today is the twenty-sixth – Lilac Day. You – come – pick up Monsieur Wickham – " he pointed towards the cells – "in two weeks." He flipped the calendar to the next page. "The eleventh of Floreal." He pointed. "Rhubarb Day."

  "I know how a bloody calendar works!" Darcy snapped. "Why two weeks? Can't we have him today?"

  Immediately the gaoler was all apologies. "Oh, no, I'm worried you misunderstand. Mr. Wickham's debts have been paid, but there remains the twenty-day sentence. The, ah, how do you say," he switched to English, "the 'cooling off time'. He must stay here for two more weeks."

  "Is there any way around that?"

  "I hope the English gentleman is not suggesting that the law be avoided."

  "No, no," Richard said hastily, "nothing of the sort. I know how important the correct observation of the law is to you. And to the French nation," he said.

  The gaoler nodded severely. "Until the Rhubarb," he said.

  "Until the Rhubarb," Darcy and Richard chorused, and patting his pocket where the receipt was, they turned around and walked briskly out of the gaol.

  *

  Outside, Darcy turned to his cousin to ask whether he would rather take a refreshment in town, or return straight home to the ladies, but on catching Richard's eye, the two men immediately burst into laughter and could not stop for a full minute.

  "This country!" Richard said, wiping a tear from the corner of his eye. "I am glad we are at peace, but – this bloody country, Darcy!"

  "I'm beginning to grow fond of it," Darcy joked dryly. "A highly incorruptible nation. Their moral ethic is to be praised, really."

  "Praised to high heaven – or something-ed to high heaven, at least. Come – let us break the news to his doting wife."

  Chapter 28.

  When Mr. Darcy explained the terms of Mr. Wickham's sentence, Elizabeth almost laughed. The three-day delay over passports in Le Havre had felt interminable, but this enforced stay in Rouen was a gift. Even after just a day, she was beginning to get to know the town, and love it. The unexpected pleasure of having two full weeks to explore it stretched in front of her. She walked to the open window, and looked out on the street.

  Lydia took the news with a burst of noisy tears, followed immediately by a determination to visit her beloved every day, to cheer up his spirits; she immediately began collecting breakfast rolls into a napkin for this purpose.

  Elizabeth did not dissuade her. If Wickham was safe in gaol, and Lydia attending on him, Elizabeth would not have to entertain Lydia, and therefore Elizabeth's hands would remain unstung as Lydia's cheeks would remain un-slapped. No one can wind us up like a sister, and a full week of unmitigated Lydia was beginning to take its toll.

  She resolved to call on the bookshop. She walked with Lydia and Louise as far as the gaol, where Lydia was greeted with confused courtesy from the gaoler, and shown into her husband's presence; we will draw a veil over their reunion.

  Elizabeth, seeing her sister in the careful guardianship of the meticulous city of Rouen, walked alone to the address Annelise Fournier had given her.

  Mme. Fournier was not there, but her husband, a small thin man with a kind face and spectacles, showed her through the stacks. It was a cavernous place, established in what must have been an old inn. Books were stacked haphazardly, according to the couple's whims. There were many books that would not yet have reached England, and Elizabeth prowled them eagerly. M. Fournier was more than happy to direct her towards interesting volumes, and did not mind if she sat in a chair reading all afternoon; in fact he said he was pleased to have the company.

  After about an hour he drew a small plate of sugar biscuits from the back room, and offered one to her. "I am experimenting with the recipe," he said. "You must let me know what you think."

  A customer arrived, and M. Fournier began speaking in rapid French. Elizabeth was only a little embarrassed to understand how much he had been slowing down for her. It was kind of him to do so.

  She tucked her feet underneath her and lost herself in a beautifully printed volume of Christine de Pizan, the medieval French poet. When she looked up, the sun was slanting through the windows. Elizabeth scrambled to her feet.

  "I am so sorry!" she said. "You must be wanting to close. I lost track of time…"

  "It is very understandable," he said. "You are very welcome, any time."

  Indeed Elizabeth set out to return the very next morning. In the breakfast room, Mr. Darcy sat finishing a roll, dressed for going out. Elizabeth curtseyed, and he bowed; and after a quick assessment in both their minds, they decided they could not help going out together.

  "Oh – although I have I left my reticule upstairs," Elizabeth said. "I will only be a moment." In her bedroom, she slipped on her walking shoes and a bonnet, then thought better of it. The fashions truly were different in France, and she might never have the chance again. If this was to be the only time she could go out in public like this, Elizabeth was going to make the most of it. She unpinned her hair, shook out the twists and began to brush it and re-work the style.

  It would have been much easier with Louise, of course, but she had taken her darning to accompany Lydia to the gaol. Elizabeth managed a fair approximation of the loose waves that she had seen on the French women in town. She pulled a few strands away from her face, and wrapped them loosely around the gathering at the base of her neck, the rest falling down her back in soft waves. It was a style that had been popular in England in the last century, if portraits were true, and Elizabeth pushed in the last pin and shook her head, enjoying the feeling of freedom.

  Elizabeth came downstairs, slightly self-conscious. "Have you seen my parasol?" she said. It was a cloudy day, but the sun might break out later.

  Mr. Darcy gaped at her.

  "I know it's a bit different than England, but, I thought, when in Rouen…"

  "It is very different," Mr. Darcy said. "You look…"

  "Well, never mind," Elizabeth said irritably, and turned to the hallway to find her parasol. Every time she thought he was learning to behave like a gentleman, he went and said something like this again. "Are you going far?"

  "Only to the coffee-shop, on that street near the cathedral," Mr. Darcy said. "I should know the name."

  "I think I know it," she said. "With a small iron hook in the window?"

  "Yes."

  "The landlady has a daughter named Elise," Elizabeth said, "she plays on the stoop sometimes."

  "I had not noticed," Mr. Darcy said. "And you?"

  "Only to the bookshop," she said, a little embarrassed.

  "I had not noticed there was a bookshop," he said. "Is it – is it any good?"

  "It is wonderful," she said warmly. In this conversation they had reached the end of their street, and turned on to the main road in town. It was just before noon, and the road was busy; Elizabeth took a moment to breathe in and take it in.

  "I find it so pleasing to simply watch them going about their business," she confided. "It is so like England and yet not like England."

  Mr. Darcy agreed warmly. In fact, he said, that had been his intention in going to the coffee-shop – to observe the people.

  When they reached the bookshop, Elizabeth took her leave and stepped inside.

  Mr. Darcy did not proceed straight on. Instead he lingered outside, looking at the printed material in the window; and seeing something that caught his interest, he stepped inside to see if it could be acquired.

  Elizabeth was browsing the shelves of the romantics. They were not usually to her taste, but she found the French novels amusing; they were cheerfully bleak in a way that English novelists could not bring themselves to be. One, titled, Jaques le Nihiliste, made her laugh already from the name on the spine,
and she picked it up to flip through it and see if the language were penetrable. Sadly it did not look as if it would be as amusing as the title promised, and having unintentionally strayed into the shelves of philosophy – a dire collection that Elizabeth stayed well clear of when she could – she returned to the safety of poetry, and brushed the edge of La cité des dames which she had been reading yesterday.

  Here she encountered Mr. Darcy, who had been standing at these shelves for several minutes, scrutinising them with only half an eye. "Oh!" Elizabeth said.

  "I am looking for something for my sister," Mr. Darcy explained, plucking a book off the shelf without looking at it. "She reads French much better than I do, and I thought – it might make a gift, something she could not get in England."

  Elizabeth looked down. "Possibly not this volume," she said tactfully. Darcy looked down and saw that it was a Laclos, and reshelved it hastily.

  "You read French well?" he said.

  "Heavens, no," she said, "but I try to work it out."

  "Mademoiselle reads it very well," M. Fournier interjected from behind the till. "She is always asking the most interesting questions."

  Elizabeth blushed, and waved him off, but was tremendously flattered.

  Darcy for his part was impressed – not by Elizabeth's French language speaking, which even he could tell was middling at best, but at her bothering to discuss literature with the shop owner. Even his better-read friends did not make a habit of speaking to the tradesmen who procured the volumes that filled their libraries, instead preferring to discuss their reading among themselves. For after all, Darcy reflected ironically, what would a bookshop owner know about literature?

  He meant to turn to make this observation about his friends' shallowness to Miss Bennet, but she was already deep in conversation about an upcoming volume of a series he had never heard of. After a moment or two, Darcy slipped out of the shop. Neither Elizabeth nor M. Fournier noticed him go.

  "As mademoiselle is so interested," M. Fournier said, "I wonder if she would like to attend a meeting tomorrow afternoon. There is a group – oh, it is nothing alarming or revolutionary," he said, seeing Elizabeth's face, "we simply discuss books! Every week we discuss what we have read – give recommendations and such – and discuss the state of French literature." He used the verb discuter three times – there must be a lot of talking. "And you will meet my wife again."

  "I do not know that my French is up to it," Elizabeth said, laughing, "but you are very kind – I would be very pleased to come. At what time?"

  "We will gather at around two o'clock."

  "Thank you – I look forward to it."

  Elizabeth did not tell anyone when she returned about her invitation. It felt special, and secret – she wanted to keep it to herself.

  Chapter 29.

  At ten minutes to two the next day, Elizabeth entered the bookshop self-consciously. She was wearing a plain dress – she did not know what the other ladies would be wearing. Would she stick out as unfashionable? But when she entered the old, timber-beamed bookshop that had become her haunt, Elizabeth was gratified to see that the other women were wearing similarly simple styles. Both Madame and Monsieur Fournier were there, and Mme. Fournier moved towards her with an open smile.

  "Mademoiselle Bennet," she said, stretching out a hand. "So pleased you could join us. Please – come sit here." Elizabeth accepted a small glass of wine, and took a seat between two other ladies. One was younger, perhaps Lydia's age, with wide dark eyes and her dress tied with a romantic flourish of a bow, and the other perhaps Jane's age, or a little older, soberly drinking coffee.

  "Bonjour, Mademoiselle Anglaise!" the younger said cheerily. "I am Mademoiselle Lenoir, but you can call me Aline."

  "Pleased to meet you," Elizabeth said, suppressing a smile.

  "Citoyenne Avisée," the older said, extending a hand for a solid handshake.

  "Enchanted," Elizabeth said.

  M. Fournier picked up a book, and look expectantly up. "Shall we begin?"

  The first part of the meeting consisted of discussion of a book Elizabeth had not read. It had only been released that month in France, and made its way from Paris to Rouen, Orleans, Tours, Amiens, even reportedly as far as Marseille and Toulouse. In the discussion, three factions emerged among the group of readers. Some thought the picture of life before the Revolution was romanticised; some, who judging by their age could remember adult life before the Revolution, thought it a fair portrait but unbalanced; and several younger members thought the writing was skilled but the politics were insufficiently developed. Elizabeth could not contribute, but she noted the title of the book in case it was ever published in England; she hoped she might be able to borrow it from a library.

  The second part of the meeting consisted of drinking more wine and eating many more of Monsieur Fournier's sugar biscuits, and discussing how they intended to vote in the upcoming départment elections. Seeing that Elizabeth was not participating in this discussion either, Aline asked her what she had read last. Elizabeth mentioned Christine de Pizan.

  "Oh, I adore Christine!" Aline said. Elizabeth smiled at her calling the 15th-century writer by her first name, as if they were friends. "Her writing on chivalry is truly excellent. You have read her poem on Jeanne d'Arc?"

  Elizabeth had not, but Citoyenne Avisée thought the bookstore might have a copy; she disappeared and found it in the stacks, and advised Elizabeth to buy it. "She captures the Maid's spirit so well. She is one of our greatest writers," she said.

  "I do not have my money purse with me," Elizabeth lied. "I shall return for it tomorrow."

  She left with her head full of ideas. She was not convinced of the rights of the Revolution, but she was not as convinced of the wrongs as she had previously been. She wished she had enough money to buy all the books she ever wanted to read. Most strangely, between the earlier dinner at the restaurant and this meeting, it was clear that French women were enthusiastically participants in public life. Elizabeth enjoyed reading books, but was not used to expressing her thoughts about them, not in public and not even at home; if she did, she would be shouted down at the dinner table. And the men in the club did not recoil at the talkative women. In fact, the attentions of the gentlemen – including one particularly handsome man – had been drawn to the Citoyenne, who was by no means the prettiest girl in the room, but who had expressed her ideas with the most confidence and persuasive skill.

  Elizabeth walked home, a little fuzzy from the wine and words, and sat to write a letter to Jane. She spent half a page effusively describing the various personalities of the book club, the manner of the building, the organisation of the stacks, and the back and forth of the conversation, before the wine wore off a little and her pen slowed down.

  It truly was the most interesting and pleasurable occurrence, Elizabeth concluded. You would like it very much, I think, one can talk just as much as one likes – or does not like. Perhaps we shall institute such a Club when I am back home, although it may be just the two of us.

  She dipped her pen and thought of what to say about the others.

  Lydia appears to be settling well into her new position and although I hesitate to say it, there is hope yet for a quiet repatriation and no scandal. Tomorrow I may risk leaving her alone at the gaol with her 'dear' husband, for I fear homicide if Louise is required to spend another day with the two of them.

  Col. Fitzwilliam who has been so helpful is off on an errand for his commanding officer, returning in two days, and Mr. Darcy remains. He is showing himself to be gentlemanly and even occasionally droll – as surprising to me as it no doubt is to you. As well as these two there is another interesting gentleman in town, a French official

  Elizabeth stopped, for she had not been meaning to include Mercier, but her mind had wandered to his invitation to the opera before she could stop her pen.

  She was not sure whether to mention this. She would like to be able to share this with J
ane, but she did not want to set her mother's hares running – in fact she now regretted even mentioning him in writing.

  – who has also been helpful, if somewhat oblique, she concluded quickly. Elizabeth then ran through a half page with thoughts on fashion and her guesses at recipes for Mme. Pommeau's cuisine. She re-read the letter and considered scratching out the section on Mercier, but it would only draw attention to the lines; and she had written so much that she could not afford to waste the paper, and start the letter again on a fresh sheet.

  It is nothing to draw attention, she thought, and set the letter on the small bedroom table to dry over dinner.

  All evening, Elizabeth was absent-minded, thinking about her experience at the bookshop. Lydia did not notice the change, but Mr. Darcy certainly did. He was disconcerted. It was one thing to be snubbed on purpose by a lady, but to be overlooked was something much more dismaying – and not one Darcy had much experience with.

  Not only was she vibrant and appealing, but he enjoyed her conversation beyond all reason. Richard was easy to talk to, but he did not speak so freely and lucidly on all topics as Miss Bennet; like most army men, there were subjects he did not discuss, and sometimes closed up when Darcy touched him too near. But Miss Bennet was informed and interested in every topic, from literature to art to the husbandry of a herb garden to the status of women under the First Consul.

  His acute longing for her, so difficult to quash at Rosings, were simply unmanageable in close quarters. Darcy could not believe it of himself. Never had he had so little control over his own self. It must be the French air and situation. If he had encountered an un-landed miss of little fortune in a London coffeehouse, prattling about the art of portrait painting in Robespierre's day, he would have dismissed her as a grasping pretender, out to catch a gentleman with an income. But Miss Bennet was not pretending to anything; she was being herself, which was a lively, intelligent, curious woman. One with whom Darcy was having some of the most sensible and interesting conversations of his adult life.