For Miss Bennet's Honour

by Sophia Woodford

  "Oh, hell," he said, pressing his forehead against the wall of his room.

  With this came another sudden realisation, aimed more sharply at himself; and he took out a pen, ink and paper, and began to write in clear, urgent strokes.

  Chapter 30.

  Elizabeth rose early and walked to the post office. As well as her letter to Jane, she had written to her father and uncle, updating them on her progress. To her surprise and pleasure, she had not one letter, but three waiting for her.

  The first was from Mr. Gardiner, dated the previous week. He apologised at great length that he would not be able to join her. Elizabeth had understood as much, but she was relieved to have confirmation that he had not been traipsing around Le Havre and Upper Normandy trying to find her. A piece of Mr. Gardiner's business remained unexpectedly pressing – a client suddenly died, his will legally complete, but challenged before the ink was dry; an orphaned daughter at the mercy of unkind relatives… "I would not be drawn away if I did not have every confidence in you, my dearest niece," he wrote. "Enclosed is a letter of credit which you may present at the Banque Nationale Francaise. Do not worry your mind about the money; I will take it up with your father."

  Mr. Bennet sent a brief, hurried note of apology. He, too, would not be joining them; as Elizabeth well knew, it was planting season and he was needed to supervise the farm. There was no mention of money, nor of Lydia. "Come home as soon as you are able", was all he wrote.

  Elizabeth re-folded this and frowned. She was not deluded as to her father's readiness to exert effort on behalf of his younger daughters, but she was genuinely dismayed at the lack of care he showed for the family, and for her.

  "He is not practised in writing letters," she said to reassure herself. "He does not see how he shows himself."

  The last correspondence was, unexpectedly, from Charlotte, who had heard of the great escapade from Lady Catherine; how that lady had received the news from her nephews, Elizabeth laughed to guess. Charlotte wished her well, expressed sympathies, and wished to hear every detail of French life, custom and fashion on her return. There was a postscript from Mr. Collins, firm and cross, praying for Elizabeth's wayward soul and that of her poor sister.

  As she read the Collins' letter, Elizabeth drafted a serene reply in her head, expressing proud pleasure at her sister's marriage, as well as the certainty that Mr. Collins would be gratified to hear of the friendliness of the French and their earnest desire for lasting peace, "which is the greatest of God's blessings," Elizabeth finished with a Mary-like flourish.

  "What makes you smile so?" Mr. Darcy's voice intruded on her thoughts. Elizabeth jumped a little. She had thought herself alone in the post office, and was a little embarrassed, and worried she had spoken aloud by mistake.

  "Oh – only a letter from my friend," she said. "Mrs. Collins, you remember."

  "Of course," Mr. Darcy said. He seemed to fill the post office somehow. Had he always been so tall? "She is well, I hope?"

  "She is," Elizabeth said.

  Mr. Darcy hesitated. "Have you heard from your sister Jane?"

  "No, but I do not expect to," Elizabeth said, stashing the letters in her reticule. "She is not a great writer. If there is anything to hear I am sure I shall hear it, one way or another."

  "Indeed I hope so, too," Mr. Darcy said.

  The voice of a new customer prompted the postman to appear from the back room, and Mr. Darcy held out his letter. "One frank to England, please."

  "To London, or beyond?" the postman said.

  Elizabeth did not hear Mr. Darcy's response; she had spotted Louise and Lydia walking past the town square, Lydia radiant, Louise looking as if she were walking up the hill to Calvary.

  "Please excuse me," she said quickly, "I must speak with my sister."

  Mr. Darcy hardly had time to bow before she was out the door.

  "Louise!" Elizabeth said, breathlessly catching them up. "Thank goodness I found you. I – I need your help to carry a bit of shopping home for me. Lydia – will you be quite all right at the gaol?"

  "I need no one as long as my love is with me," Lydia said, with the attitude of an Iseult or Dido.

  "She will be more than all right," Louise said darkly. "They adore Miss Lydia – she is the belle of the chambres."

  "Of course she is," Elizabeth sighed.

  They were so relieved to have let Lydia loose that they did not see Mr. Darcy looking after them. They spent the morning walking up and down the ancient town; Louise was just as much a tourist as Elizabeth, and they dared venture inside the second cathedral, St-Ouen, where the achingly tall blue and white stone walls looked like pearls in the dim light.

  "This is so beautiful, and so new to me," Elizabeth said in a low voice. They were the only visitors, and her voice did not carry. "I hope you are not finding it too difficult."

  "I would be lying to say it is not very strange," Louise said. Her accent was stronger than ever; just a week in her own country had brought her back ten years and more. "Though it is not so bad here as I feared. You hear such terrible things – " she broke off. Light was playing through the stained-glass, making jewelled patterns on the floor. "So much has changed, but so much has not. It is difficult, I cannot say. Maybe I have lived away for too long, and I have changed too."

  Elizabeth thought about this in silence for several minutes, admiring the façade and the statue of the saint. She slipped outside, and after a few moments Louise joined her. More people were walking into the cathedral; it was time for afternoon Mass.

  "Maybe it is better for most people now," Louise said, looking after them. "I was lucky when I was young, my mistress was kind – I did not have to think about such things. All I had to worry about was how to sneak away to see my beau," she said, turning her tone to playful.

  "A beau! Goodness, was he handsome?" Elizabeth said, mirroring her tone as they walked back into the sunlight, out of the imposing shade of the cathedral. The organ began to sound.

  "Oh! All the other girls envied me," Louise said, pressing a hand to her heart. "Clever, so quick, but kind – with blue eyes and the blackest hair. He was a clerk in the army – and oh, those uniforms!"

  The rest of the day they passed in a light argument over whether the old royal army, or the new Napoleonic, had the most attractive regimentals; Elizabeth loyally maintained that the uniform of the British army was superior to both, but as she could only point to Col. Fitzwilliam and Mr. Wickham for immediate evidence, it was not a battle she was well equipped to fight.

  Chapter 31.

  Elizabeth intended to return to the bookshop to confirm the cost of the Christine de Pizan printed poem that the women at the book club had recommended; but in all the long summer days, she forgot which day it was, and found herself at a closed door. It was Sunday, and all the shops were closed.

  But the morning was glorious, and rather than returning straight to the hotel for breakfast, Elizabeth decided to take a short stroll.

  She started with the top of their street – rue Gros-Horloge, named after the large clock that straddled it in the middle like a bridge – and worked her way outward. It was still early, and the streets had the fresh washed look of a new day. The cobblestones were yellow-white, the sunlight dappling them with a soft play of light and shadow. There were not many citizens out yet, and Elizabeth had the private pleasure of feeling that she was one of the only people in the world.

  A house in front of her was red, another brown, another yellow. Most of the homes were timbered in the same way, sturdy and fine. It was a well built town. On an impulse, Elizabeth turned left, rather than right, taking her further away from their lodging and the centre of town. She walked past an abandoned friary with open windows which still had a lock on the door.

  Past this, the river Seine. Like the Thames, it looped around for miles before reaching the capital. Somewhere downriver was Paris. The bank was grassy and Elizabeth patted it with her hand: it was dry enough t
o sit, and she did. The silver-green scent of the river rose up cool to bathe her face. The sun just touched it, and soon the day would be warm.

  Elizabeth felt she should want to see Paris – the art, the architecture, the people. But she could not bring herself to. Her preference was for the countryside – as long as there was enough good company, and a stationer.

  She stood and brushed off her skirts, and turned from the river back to the path. On the street, she recognised a black shock of hair, to her surprise. Mercier seemed to recognise her at the same time, and after a small double take he collected himself and approached her.

  "Mlle Bennet," he said. He dropped the 't', in the French style, and Elizabeth almost laughed at the bare faced attempt to be charming. "You are out early? Alone?"

  "It is a lovely morning, and I am told it is not unusual in this country for ladies to walk alone," she said.

  "These are both true." He shaded his eyes with his hand and looked at her for a moment. "It is a lovely morning," he echoed her. "I also like to enjoy the river bank on such a day – which you have caught me in the act of doing. Would you walk with me back into town?"

  Mercier was silent on their walk back, and Elizabeth had no desire to prompt him into speech. But it was a companionable silence; she did not feel he was held back by anything other than his own thoughts.

  They passed a tower, an old medieval tower out of myth. It had a turret and small high windows. Rapunzel might have been locked inside there.

  "I was taken by your comments at dinner," he said, as if she had spoken to ask him his thoughts. "I cannot disagree with the principle, but I find it is the implementation where I struggle. Some history I do not think you can make use of. Like this." He pointed to the tower Elizabeth had noticed. "What lesson can we take from this – where is the nourriture in the soil?"

  Elizabeth turned to look at the tall stone building, her bonnet shading her eyes. "What do you mean?"

  "To me, it is simply barbarous," Mercier said. "Kings and soldiers, to kill a girl simply for seeing hysterics."

  Elizabeth realised she must be looking at Joan of Arc's last resting place.

  "If this could be improved by weeding, it would not have stayed the same for three, four centuries. But it did. No matter how ancient, you cannot plant in poisoned ground. Whatever else, the Revolution brought fresh soil, clean."

  "Very many were killed," Elizabeth said gently.

  "This is true," Mercier conceded, "but many were killed before. The difference is that they were poor and no one cared." He used a rather stronger idiom than Elizabeth was familiar with, but she understood the gist. "Like me – I would have been nothing. Now, my superior is not my superior because his father, grandfather, family, were greater than my father, grandfather, family. He is my superior because he is more clever than me. Someday I hope to be superior because I will be more clever."

  Elizabeth searched for something to say. Mercier smiled, seemingly genuine. "I am sorry – I did not mean to make you uncomfortable. I forget English ladies are not used to discussing such things in company. I hope it is not too difficult – Annelise said you enjoyed the book club."

  "Oh, yes!" Elizabeth said. "She and her husband have been very kind. In particular in letting me sit and read all day." She laughed a little. "It is a great pleasure to have the time."

  "Time is a pleasure we have now," Mercier said. As if this thought flowed from the other, he continued, "A wife of mine should do as she pleases. We are a free nation, and I am not one of those gentlemen who is offended by a clever wife."

  "I do not understand you," Elizabeth said in English, in confusion.

  Mercier blew out a breath and looked at the tower. "I think you do more than you know," he said. "Yet it is difficult to change your life and move abroad, take on a new nation and a new fashion of living. Not many are brave enough. I knew a girl – " He stopped abruptly, and stood in silence for a long moment. Then he turned and bowed quickly. "I think you know the way from here. Thank you for your company, Mademoiselle."

  He bowed quickly and left Elizabeth standing alone, in much more confusion than before.

  Chapter 32.

  When Elizabeth returned to the hotel, Mme. Pommeau and Louise were on their way out to the market, and Elizabeth offered to accompany them, welcoming the prospect of another walk.

  She practiced her pronunciation with them, swishing her r's as she swished her skirts. At the market she looked over the ducks and chickens with a careful eye, pretending she was the head cook shopping for a great household. She made a selection of carrots, pointing out those with bright, pert green stems, rather than those with wilting or brown leaves.

  "You will make a very good housewife," Mme. Pommeau said encouragingly.

  "Lord, I hope not," Elizabeth said without thinking. Then she blushed. Used to her mother's persistent conversation on the subject, deflecting the prospect of marriage had become so usual that she said such things by habit, without stopping to consider. Louise laughed. Mme. Pommeau looked surprised, then reflective.

  "I suppose you have not had many proposals," she said. "You are still young."

  Elizabeth was inexplicably offended by this implication. Even if she had not welcomed either of the proposals that came her way in the past year, she had earned them, fair and square. "Actually, I have had two offers," she said indignantly, "from two very fine men. Well – a fine man and a man with a good living."

  "And you refused them? No – one who wears dresses as made over as yours cannot have refused a man with a good living," Mme. Pommeau said thoughtfully. "Did they die?" She looked at Elizabeth with renewed interest.

  "They have not died," Elizabeth said. "I did indeed refuse them, and very happy I am that I did. One married my dear friend, and the other – " She dropped off, unwilling to share with their landlady that her other rejected suitor had been staying under the same roof for a full week. "He is very well, and no doubt happier without me. And I am certainly happier without him." Yes – there remained no question about that.

  "Why refuse both?" Mme. Pommeau said in bald curiousity.

  "Why – I did not love them," Elizabeth said, "and saw no prospect of love."

  "But what has that to do with anything?" Mme. Pommeau said. She seemed genuinely confused. "You can marry well, and find love later. One marries so young, you do not know each other; you must find each other out."

  Louise hummed thoughtfully.

  "Yes, but the way a man presents himself cannot be utterly thrown away," Elizabeth said. Even if that presentation was false, as it had been with Mr. Wickham… Stop it, she told herself.

  "And anyway, if you do not find love with your husband, you can always find it later with someone else," Mme. Pommeau said. She watched absent-mindedly as the vegetable seller weighed up an enormous cabbage, then turned back to Elizabeth. "It is really too much to expect to be always content with the same man."

  "What an expectation to have already, before you even wed!" Elizabeth said. "I would never do such a thing. I would not want my husband to do the same."

  "But he will – of course he will," Mme. Pommeau said in surprise.

  "I do not agree," Elizabeth said. Was that what Mercier had meant by liberty? How appalling. Yet it had not been his tone.

  "I expect it depends on the man – and the woman," Louise interjected. Mme. Pommeau gave an amused little shrug. "And maybe someone may change. A bad-mannered man may turn out good, a promising boy may turn out bad."

  Elizabeth, sulking at being outnumbered, said nothing all the way back to the hotel.

  They returned with a large chicken and the cabbage, which took two of them to carry. Elizabeth did not see how it would fit even into Mme. Pommeau's largest pot, but it was not her place to question their hostess's housekeeping.

  The gentlemen being out on some business of the Colonel's, Elizabeth sat in the front room while dinner preparations began, sewing the trim back onto her best bonne
t where it had come loose. She still had the idea of buying a volume from the Fourniers' bookshop, but could not quite afford it; she hoped to sell, or exchange, something out of her things, that she could make do without.

  Lydia sailed in, fresh from an assignation at the gaol. Elizabeth had to admit she had never seen her sister looking so well. The part of the dutiful wife sat well on her shoulders; she had let slip, and Louise had confirmed, that she was generally admired at the gaol for her devotion to her husband, no matter how unworthy the husband may be.

  "I've been to see dear Wickham all morning. He tells me not to mind – to keep my spirits up – he's such a dear, Lizzy, he really is. Always thinking of me. Telling me to go out, not to mind him, and enjoy myself. As if I could think of anything else while he's locked up in that medieval dungeon!"

  "A city gaol is hardly a dungeon," Elizabeth said mildly, tugging at the thread.

  Lydia threw her bonnet on a chair, poured herself a coffee, and sat back in the chair.

  Elizabeth could not help herself. It had been rolling around in her mind all afternoon and before she could think, the words were out of her mouth.

  "What is being married like, Lydia?" she said.

  Lydia leaned forward, a catlike gleam in her eye. "Of course!" she exclaimed. "How derelict I have been! I have not instructed you in its secrets like a sister should!" It was almost enough to make Elizabeth want to slap her – but she did want to know.

  "Not that," Elizabeth said, "I mean – well." She pulled the needle through the ribbon in a broad gathering stitch, took a deep breath, and re-entered the conversation. "Are you happy you made the choice you did?"

  "Oh, simply desperately," Lydia replied promptly. She opened her mouth to confirm this further, then sat back a bit in her chair to think. "It is much different than I expected, although that is mostly because dear Wickham is so tragically separated from me. It is – it is still all very pleasant, however."