"Very well," he said, and keys jangling, went to fetch Wickham. Ragged, wet, unshaven and unkempt, Wickham was in a very different state than that she had last seen him in – which Elizabeth was pleased to see as she and Louise hauled him between them. "Here he is," the gaoler said. "And very well rid of him, too. Half the men here have lost their month's income to him – and next month's, too."
"Come with us and shut up," Elizabeth whispered. Wickham recognised her voice, and looked up with a hopeful look. She gave him a kick that was not strictly necessary, but had a great deal of feeling behind it.
Around the corner, Mr. Darcy and Col. Fitzwilliam were waiting in the dark, and Elizabeth made to hand her prisoner over to the gentlemen.
"Wait a moment – wait!" the gaoler's voice rang out behind them. Elizabeth did not wait; she grabbed Wickham's arm and ran, tripping down the wet streets. She slipped once, and a strong arm caught her; she did not wait to feel whose it was until they had run the full half-mile to the inn.
Mr. Darcy's arm was strong and sure under her elbow.
As they reached their street, the opera was just finishing, the audience streaming out into the night. The chatter was light and full of laughter, all about the play they had just seen – but the news was soon introduced, and as the tidings of war spread, the audience began to turn, their voices pitched lower and anger and fear coming in. The peace broken – surely not by the wise and good Napoleon – it must be the English – the traitorous, false, lying English!
Elizabeth shuffled forward, almost too paralysed to think. Wickham was wearing his red coat, a surely recognisable sign that he was one of the newly hated enemy. The steps before them were interminable – one, two, three. They edged forward past the crowd, in the heavier rain, to the side street that led to their lodgings.
The door to their hotel was shaded in darkness. Elizabeth was almost afraid to knock, but it was drawn open before her, and all tumbled in.
Mme. Pommeau was still in the kitchen, and all signs were that she had not left the house – so they still must move quickly. Her other dresses, combs, books – all were thrown in the luggage with the barest semblance of folding and order. Elizabeth sorted clothing from papers, and Louise wrapped one in the other, quickly ensuring valuable letters and books were kept safe from the rain by shifts and dresses, which could be washed.
Elizabeth could not stop to think to be unhappy. Her every part of being was focused on getting Lydia out – however little she deserved it – and Louise. If she had stopped, she would have thought of what had been interrupted by the news, in the little room with the wild music. This dress – the blue one she was folding, that she had worn in the carriage on the journey here – could tell of her light conversation with Mr. Darcy. This bracelet could tell of feel of his arms around her at the dance.
She closed the case with a great sigh, and clicked shut the latches. Hefting it down the stairs, she and Louise made their way down to the sitting room.
Lydia and Wickham were whispering to each other in an appallingly forthright way. Mr. Darcy was not there, nor Col. Fitzwilliam; a moment later, Mr. Darcy appeared, with his bags and baggage tidily put together in a way Elizabeth had not managed. He looked as if he were about to go on a gentleman's holiday; yet the rakish wave of his hair gave him a look of masculine urgency.
"There there, my dove," Wickham whispered. "Here I am, and all well."
Lydia was beyond crying. Her eyes were shining with the verve of this adventure. In fact nothing in the world became her like the role of an intrepid young wife. She would never again reach the height of this evening's requirements. The enactment of a devoted prison spouse and an escapee were in her finest lights, and she would retell it often.
Col. Fitzwilliam appeared through the servants' door. "I have called for a carriage, with our friend's pass," he said. "I do not know whether it will come."
Elizabeth shivered. The sound of rain on the door, which would usually be so pleasing, was ominous.
Chapter 36.
A rapping knock sounded on the door. The blood dropped from Elizabeth's face and she felt faint – but then braced herself, willing and ready to brave this out.
"Get upstairs," she hissed to the gentlemen, but they did not move.
The knock sounded, more insistently, and Elizabeth stood, prepared to push the gentlemen out the back door if need be.
"Open up quickly," a voice outside said. "It is Mercier. If you value your liberty, there is no time to lose."
Elizabeth and Mr. Darcy exchanged looks.
"Very well," Mr. Darcy said, and opened the door.
Mercier was alone. He pushed his way in quickly, smartly shut the door behind him, and took off his hat and shook off the rain.
"I do not think anyone saw me outside," he said. "You must leave quickly if you are not to be arrested."
"Arrested!"
"I am in receipt of several pieces of interesting news before they are, shall we say, formally communicated to my mayor," Mercier said. "The peace has broken down – it is not important why or where. We are told it is the proud English; I suspect you will be told it is the grasping Bonaparte. The fault I suspect is on both sides. When this order is made public, all English travellers are to be arrested on sight. There is a rumour you will be imprisoned, though I do not know where."
Elizabeth reached behind her for a chair, and sat down. "This was not looked for," she said.
Mr. Darcy's face was dark, with fear or rage she could not tell. "This is an outrage!" he said.
"I quite agree," Mercier said, "which is why, you will notice, I am not arresting you." He reached into his coat. "I have brought passes as far as the city limits – that is the best my authority can do. I am sorry," he said.
"Sorry?" Elizabeth was half-laughing. "For what? You are saving us."
"Do not thank me yet," Mercier said.
"And the roads?" Mr. Darcy said. "I assume they will be watched."
"Not until the order is formalised, which I do not expect it will be until tomorrow," Mercier said. "If you are able to travel in the next hour, you will be able to make it out and away safe. Please, be quick. I do not want to see you in gaol." He smiled at them, more genial than the circumstances warranted. "I like you."
"Ah!"
A small soft cry sounded at the top of the stairs. Elizabeth turned just in time to see Louise drop the baggage she was holding, and stare. No – she was staring at Mercier.
Mercier was staring back.
"Louise?" he said, incredulously.
"Jean," she said, with only half a voice. "No – you cannot be. He is younger – he is gone."
"Louise," he said, still in wonder. "It is me – I thought you were abroad – you never wrote – "
"I thought you were dead," Louise said.
Elizabeth suddenly understood many things.
"Help me bring the bags to the back," she murmured to Lydia. With the gentlemen, they loaded the carriage. The driver was impatient. He had been told the passengers were of great import, and that there would be a great reward for him at the other end of the journey, for seeing them to Le Havre safe. He did not care for the shifting fates of nations. He only wanted to make enough from the fare to pay for his daughter's dowry to the young man she liked, who was of good spirit but little wealth. He did not care if the passengers were English, or Italian, or Swiss, or even from Marseille.
When Elizabeth looked over her shoulder, Louise was engaged in something more than conversation with Mercier. Embarrassed at catching something so private, she turned away. But in seconds Louise joined her, her face wet but determined. "It is time to go?" she said.
There was very little time, and Elizabeth made the decision quickly. "Only if you want it to be. If you like – you can stay here."
"Stay?" Louise looked like a prisoner who had just been given a stay of execution.
"If you like – I dismiss you." Elizabeth fumbled through her reticule
for the coins she had left. "Here – this will pay out your week's wages, and I hope more."
"Oh!" Louise took the change and kept hold of Elizabeth's hands, squeezing them tight. Both women were crying. "Please tell the girls I will miss them – I hope to see you again – when there is another peace."
"So do I – oh, we must go – so do I! Goodbye!"
Elizabeth was sure she had done the right thing, but it did not stop her from feeling as though she had lost something great; she let herself cry briefly, then dried her face and hurried to the carriage.
Mr. Darcy was waiting to help her up, and lay his coat on the hard seat for her. He looked as if he would like to say something; but he cast a look at Mr. Wickham and Lydia across the carriage, and Col. Fitzwilliam squeezed in next to him, and said nothing. Elizabeth ducked her head and tugged her cloak around her shoulders, and they were off.
Chapter 37.
The ride from Rouen to Le Havre was rapid and tense. None of them spoke for the first hour. Elizabeth looked out the window, watching the landscape roll by in the dark rain. They left just before dawn, but the day did not lighten, the sun remaining behind heavy clouds; finally they pulled into the outskirts of Le Havre at midday. It was as dark as dusk already, and the black clouds were hanging low.
"Out," the carriage driver said.
It was raining, and they had all their trunks. The harbour was an hour's walk through muddy streets.
"Please, can you not drop us by the docks?" Elizabeth said. "Please. You have been so kind." The man was hesitating; he looked sceptical. "Your people have been so kind," she repeated, in French. "It would be wonderful to be able to speak well of France. Please."
"Very well," he said, and whipped the horses before Elizabeth could climb all the way inside. She fell against Mr. Darcy's arm, and he swore softly at the man under his breath.
"Never mind him, we're going," she said.
At the docks, they were deposited with all their luggage. A small crowd of twenty or thirty people were clustered around the harbourmaster's office; word must have got out.
"You," Mr. Darcy said, thrusting a finger in Wickham's face. "If you try to run you will be shot." Lydia squeaked in dismay. "Stay here," Mr. Darcy said roughly to Elizabeth. "We will see about passage."
Col. Fitzwilliam slipped off.
Elizabeth caught Darcy's arm. "Please be safe."
There was nothing about them that said English, but Elizabeth knew as soon as any of them opened their mouths, they would be revealed immediately. She did not know whether the order had reached Le Havre; she did not even know if it had formally reached Rouen.
"This is terribly exciting," Lydia said in hushed tones.
"There, there, duckling," Wickham said. "All will be well."
Elizabeth gritted her teeth.
At last Col. Fitzwilliam reappeared, his cloak wet and his boots scuffed with mud and sand. "There is a ferry leaving tonight, which as you can see is already oversubscribed. There is also a military vessel leaving, and I have secured two places, as well as one for myself."
Darcy pushed his way through. "I have three places on the ferry," he said, flushed and breathing shortly. Elizabeth did the quick sums, and she could see from Mr. Darcy's face that he was doing the same.
Wickham shrank against the wall; after his ignominious rescue and damp journey across the French countryside, he seemed to be taking the approach that it was better to be seen than heard; which Elizabeth approved of heartily.
"The ladies should come with me on the military transport; it will be safer," Col. Fitzwilliam said. "We are not yet officially at war again, and it will travel faster and lighter than the ferry."
"I won't be separated from my George for another minute," Lydia said. "For richer and poorer, better and worse, that's what we said." Elizabeth fought the overwhelming urge to push her into the Channel. Though she had a similar aversion to being separated from Mr. Darcy, she could not think how to tease it out.
After several moments' quick discussion, the separations were agreed. Lydia and Wickham would take the ferry; Mr. Darcy, unwilling to let Wickham out of his sight, would accompany them; and Col. Fitzwilliam would escort Elizabeth to join the wives of the British Navy.
"Let us go, then," Elizabeth said, feeling light headed.
Mr. Darcy took her aside, and seemed about to speak, but a whistle blew.
"All aboard!" the harbourmaster said.
"I will see you in England," Mr. Darcy said. He seemed to be reassuring himself as much as her. "I will – write to you."
"Yes, yes," Elizabeth said. "Thank you for everything you have done for us – for me." The whistle blew again. She could not bear it; she turned quickly and picked up her trunk; it seemed so small. She followed Col. Fitzwilliam onto the Navy boat, and turned around to wave good-bye. Lydia was waving gaily; Mr. Wickham was already on board. Mr. Darcy she could not see at all.
On the deck of the light boat, Elizabeth drew her cloak around herself and began to cry.
Chapter 38.
The British Navy vessel was quick and light, as promised. It was also small. Elizabeth had hardly a cabin, but a small berth she shared with two other women. They were not present, but their bags were resting against the wall, coats hanging around the cabin, and combs by the mirror. Elizabeth set down her own bag. It was not heavy, but she felt the absence of Louise and even Lydia: no one familiar to chat to, no one to brush her hair, or even talk to her as she brushed her own.
Elizabeth quickly combed and re-pinned her hair into an agreeable shape, and went to dinner with the officers and their wives. There was no captain's table and lower table, but one large congregation, and Elizabeth was cheered a little by their company. While she had found the experience of the past twelve hours – an outburst of war and threatened violence on foreign soil – to be strange and shocking, the Navy wives seemed to take it in stride. Toasted cheese, roast beef, and a few small glasses of sherry revived her colour and her spirits.
After dinner the women retired to a small, panelled cabin adjoining the dining cabin, and sat in twos and threes. A deck of cards was produced, and the low sound of chatter and laughter began to rise in the room. The candles were small, but many, and a general low light suffused the space.
Elizabeth sat alone, another small glass of wine in her hand. She was comforted by the sounds around her, the warm feeling of female solidarity against adversity, but still felt a deep chill. The rain had come through her cloak and she could feel the damp at the back of her neck. She missed Jane.
"How long have you been married?"
Elizabeth started at the interruption to her thoughts. "I beg your pardon?"
A round-faced, tanned woman was standing next to her; Elizabeth guessed she was in her early thirties. "You don't look like someone who is used to this, so I simply wondered. Your husband – the colonel? – he has the look of a kind man. It will come in time."
"Yes – oh, no, I beg your pardon," Elizabeth said. "We are not married – I am not married. He is a colonel, yes. He is a family friend. We were – there were several of us – I was travelling with my sister. I am not married." She could hear how foolish she sounded, and hated it. She drained her glass.
The woman sat next to her and smiled kindly. "I'm Sophie," she said, "and the captain there is my husband." She glanced at Elizabeth, taking in her trembling hands, her empty glass, her wide dark eyes, and her white face. "Would you like to tell me about your journey?"
Elizabeth told the whole story, or tried to. She left out the poor terms of Lydia's elopement, and tried to skirt over her own impetuous behaviour in several parts, attempting to attribute the lion's share of activity to Mr. Darcy and Col. Fitzwilliam; but Sophie nodded.
"You've done well!" she said. "What a marvel. The first time I was abroad with John, it took me days to be persuaded to leave the cabin."
"It was really nothing," Elizabeth said.
"And to speak in Fre
nch the whole time! I could never," Sophie said.
The men came through, Col. Fitzwilliam deep in conversation with two other men.
"John!" Sophie called, standing up. "Come meet Miss Bennet."
A ruddy cheeked man with a beaming complexion came up to them. Elizabeth liked him immediately; he looked like the personification of John Barleycorn.
"Captain Croft," he said, bowing. Elizabeth curtsied.
"A pleasure," she said.
"Your friend has been telling me about your exploits. Frenchmen, gaolbreaks, a wild race through the country in the rain, what! Tremendous," the captain said. "You couldn't write it down – you really couldn't. Do you know," he said earnestly, "you ought to write it down?"
"I shall be very content to make it safely home and post a letter," Elizabeth said, smiling.
"I am glad to see you in good humour," Col. Fitzwilliam said to her. "It will not be long. We are on course, sailing well, and will reach Portsmouth at daybreak." After a hasty word between them, the Crofts returned with a pint bottle of wine, which they shared out. Elizabeth spent the rest of the voyage listening to their anecdotes, and telling herself over and over that all would be well.
Chapter 39.
The ship touched down in Portsmouth, and Elizabeth and Col. Fitzwilliam went to hire a carriage. They rode with the Crofts as far as London, where Elizabeth bid them farewell and promised to write to Sophie; and then to the Bunch of Grapes, in Aldgate. Here they met Lydia and Mr. Wickham pouring down the stairs. Lydia was clean and fresh faced; she had not had trouble sleeping.
"So thoughtful, that Mr. Darcy!" she said. "He never left our side!"
"Where has he gone?" Elizabeth said.
"Straight on to Derbyshire, I believe," Lydia said. "His manners are so fine – nothing to my George's, though."
Elizabeth would liked to have spoken to Mr. Darcy, after their manner of leaving. She would even more dearly liked to have rested for an hour or two, or at least changed her shift; she had not rested since leaving Rouen which was now more than a day ago. But more than anything else she wanted to be at home, in her own bed, with the feel and smells of her own comfortable Longbourn around her.
For Miss Bennet's Honour Page 15
