Pemberley to Waterloo: Georgiana Darcy's Diary, Volume 2

by Elliott, Anna

  I think it was soon after that that Kitty and Captain Ayres found me. Captain Ayres was leaving the ball. Nearly all the officers were, as word spread that our Prussian allies had suffered worse casualties at the hands of the French than had previously been supposed.

  To our astonishment, the Duchess of Richmond tried to bar the doorway, begging them not to spoil her ball by leaving so soon, and pleading that surely they could stay 'just a little hour more.'

  Which would have been almost funny had it not been so grotesque. I suppose she thought that Napoleon would surely not be so impolite as to attack before the close of her ball?

  Captain Ayres escorted both Kitty and me to our carriage and took his leave of us. Kitty's lips were trembling, but she did not cry--and she gave Captain Ayres her cheek to kiss and said, "Do take care, John."

  She is sitting across the Forsters' parlour from me as I am writing this, slow tears rolling down her face. I hope he comes back to her. And Colonel Forster to Harriet. And Edward--

  I have been trying not to think of him. But it is impossible not to. I have rubbed my thumb a hundred times over the emerald in the claddaugh ring he gave me, as though it could conjure up some sort of magical spell to protect him.

  My last fragment of memory of the ball is from when we were already in the carriage, waiting for the driver to clear enough of the other carriages that we could be on our way. Just by chance, the Duke of Richmond happened to be standing quite close by to where our own vehicle stood.

  The Duke of Richmond is a man of fifty or thereabouts, with a paunchy frame and a melancholy, jowly face. It is said he drinks to excess--though most people excuse him that, on account of his wife. He was bidding farewell to an older man--one of his friends, I suppose--both of them standing in the glare of light cast by one of the torches that had been set at intervals along the drive. The wind blew the flame into a tattered banner of fire over their heads. And carried their words across to where I was sitting in the carriage.

  The duke must have been speaking of his time alone with Wellington tonight. Recounting to his friend what Wellington had said while they were alone in the Duke of Richmond's study, consulting the duke's maps.

  "He said Napoleon had humbugged him." The duke's words floated to me across the sweep of gravel drive. "And then he underlined a place on the map with his thumbnail and said, That is where I will stop the French. At Waterloo."

  Friday 16 June 1815

  If I thought last night was terrible, today has been so, so much worse.

  I have just spent the last five minutes at least sitting here, staring at that first sentence I wrote and wondering what more I can say.

  I do not know how to sum up these last twelve hours--because practically nothing occurred, and practically no information reached us of what was taking place outside the city.

  I never realised before that the two most exquisite tortures in the world must be uncertainty and boredom.

  We did finally go to bed last night, sometime near dawn. I don't think any of us wanted to. But Mrs. Metcalfe gathered us all up and herded us upstairs, saying that she was an old woman and didn't propose to sit up on a lumpy horsehair sofa all night. And I did fall asleep for a few hours once I had lain down on my bed--I was too tired not to.

  The city felt eerily empty and quiet when we got up this morning, after the uproar of last night. As soon as we had all breakfasted--or pretended to, I don't think Kitty or Harriet managed to eat any more than I did--we went outside, to see if we could gain any news.

  No one could give us any--no one could tell us anything of the French or the Prussians or our own army. And then, sometime about midday, we were walking through the Parc, and we heard it: a thundering cannonade of gunfire, sounding near enough to us to be within the city walls.

  Our army must have come under attack as soon as they marched out this morning.

  People--civilians--were running everywhere, crying out, exclaiming, wringing their hands in fear. But no one knew anything for certain. Some said the battle was six miles off, some said ten. Some claimed at every moment to believe the cannon fire sounded as though it were surely moving closer.

  We stayed in the Parc--I'm not sure why, except that it seemed as though we might be first to hear the news, should any come in. There was no news; what we heard, at nearly every moment, were moans and wails that we had surely been defeated and the French would be marching through the streets of Brussels by morning. They were rumours only--I knew they were only rumours, because even those who had ridden down the road in the direction the army had taken had brought back no definitive word of the battle. But I still felt as though I were going to scream--or take the next person who moaned of defeat by the ears and shake him until his teeth rattled.

  I was walking beside Mrs. Metcalfe, with Kitty and Harriet following behind us. Finally, one small, reedy little man wearing spectacles came hurrying past us and said he planned to flee Brussels as soon as he could--and strongly advised us to do the same--because our army had been cut to pieces and was retreating in the utmost confusion.

  Mrs. Metcalfe stepped forward, seized him by the ear as though he had been a twelve year old boy, and calmly informed him that he should by all means take himself off as quickly as possible. "And," she said, "I will box your ears for you, my lad, if I catch you repeating such pernicious twaddle to a single other person here."

  That made me smile, despite myself.

  It is ten o'clock at night, now. I am back in my own room. We came back to the Forsters' around half-past nine, when finally the noise of the gunfire ceased. Though still--

  I had to stop writing just now when Harriet knocked on my bedroom door to give me the latest report. Finally, finally, there is actual news.

  An acquaintance of Harriet's, Sir Neil Campbell, had brought it to her just now--and since he had it directly from a Colonel Scovell, who was on the field of battle today, Harriet felt we might believe it to be true.

  Colonel Scovell had left the battle at around half-past five--and the last he knew, 'all was well.'

  Which I suppose is comforting--though of course half-past five was hours ago, and a full four hours before we heard the gunfire cease. From what Sir Neil told Harriet, the French had encountered some of our troops on the march at a place called Quatre Bras, about fifteen miles from Brussels.

  It was only a few regiments of our troops; they had no cavalry and very little artillery--and yet even still, they managed to hold their ground against the French. The 92nd, 42nd, and 79th Highland Regiments suffered the worst of the French assault. They received the combined attack of the French cavalry and infantry. But throughout the day, they kept charging and driving the French back. Until they were finally overpowered by the sheer force of the French numbers. Colonel Scovell reported that the Highland regiments had been cut to pieces, almost to the last man.

  Kitty gave a little sob of distress when Harriet repeated that part of the news. And then she swallowed and shook her head when Harriet turned to her. "I'm sorry." Kitty scrubbed impatiently at her eyes. "It's just--the Highland regiments. We saw some of them last night, Georgiana. Do you remember? They danced at the Duchess's ball. And now they must all be dead."

  I do remember; I'm remembering it now: the haunting music of the pipes, the sway of the young men's kilts and their shouts of laughter after the dancing was done. Our having seen them at the Duchess of Richmond's ball shouldn't make their deaths any more affecting--they'd be just as young and just as dead if I'd never laid eyes on them--but somehow it does seem to bring the day's losses--

  I had to stop writing again. The rest of this likely will be illegible, because my heart is still hammering so hard against my ribs it feels as though they ought to crack.

  Just as I was writing that last sentence, there was a tremendous alarm in the street outside: a rumble of heavy military carriages. And then--from everywhere it seemed--people shouting, crying out that all was lost, the British defeated and in full retreat. I ran downstairs
--and nearly collided with Kitty, who had come out of her room at the same time--and we stepped out onto the street to see if there really was news.

  There was not--at least, I don't think there was, only more rumours: the Belgian townspeople declaring over and over again that the French had been seen advancing through the woods to take Brussels. Everywhere people were rushing about, harnessing horses and flinging bags into carriages--ready to flee to Antwerp.

  Finally Kitty and I went back inside, and found Mrs. Metcalfe and Harriet in the front hall, wearing dressing gowns hastily thrown over their night-dresses. At first I blinked and thought I must have absorbed one too many terrors today or be more tired than I had realised. Because next to Mrs. Metcalfe the first thing I saw was one of the maidservants, drenched to the skin, hiccuping and sniffling and mopping up a puddle of spilled water on the floor.

  But then Harriet explained in a whisper that apparently the girl had had hysterics over the alarm outside, and Mrs. Metcalfe had emptied the jug of water from her wash basin over the girl's head.

  Kitty and I repeated to them what we had heard. And Harriet said in a small voice that her husband the colonel had wished her to go to Antwerp in the event of danger.

  I half expected Mrs. Metcalfe to snort and dismiss such rumours out of hand again. I was very nearly counting on it. I have only known Mrs. Metcalfe a handful of days, but I discovered I was depending on her to scoff at all fears as she had the housemaid's--which would be a small measure of reassurance in itself.

  But instead Mrs. Metcalfe sighed and looked all at once weary, and older--her face suddenly seemed to show every one of her sixty-nine years. Her voice, when she spoke, sounded weary, too. "Well, girls, there's a choice to be made here. Even if this latest alarm is stuff and nonsense, that is no guarantee the next one won't be real. And for three young, pretty women like yourselves"--she looked from one of us to the other--"the middle of a city that falls to French soldiers is about the last place on earth anyone that cares about you would want you to be. Harriet's friend says the great battle--the one that decides matters once and for all--is to be tomorrow or the next day. So do we stay here, or do we go?"

  I had to clench my teeth so hard my jaw ached, trying to stop myself from saying that I wished above all things to stay. It's not fair to the others. The danger is real enough, even if the outside rumours are not. No one is making up or imagining what the end could be if the French do defeat our armies. And I do not think I am especially brave or heroic--I don't feel it at the moment, at any rate. But somehow, after this day of uncertainty, everything in me is screaming against the thought of leaving Brussels and moving to Antwerp--where we would surely be in the same uncertainty for days before we heard reliable word of whether the battle had been a victory or defeat.

  There was a long moment's silence. Harriet's round face had a white, strained look, and her hands were shaking. I was certain she would wish to leave for Antwerp as soon as the carriage could be brought round from the stable. But instead Harriet said in the same small voice, "I think ... I think I would rather stay here. At least until we know for certain whether there is more immediate danger."

  My breath went out in a rush as I felt relief sweep through me. I said that I would stay, too. And Kitty surprised me by saying that she would rather stay in Brussels, as well.

  So it is decided. We are to stay. Mrs. Metcalfe took Harriet away to dose her with hartshorn in the hopes that she might get some rest tonight. She gave some to me and to Kitty, but I poured mine away into a potted plant without her seeing. I am tired--but I don't want anything to make me sleep tonight.

  Saturday 17 June 1815

  Edward is still alive.

  My hands are shaking again with relief just writing that.

  Yesterday I was afraid even to write down what I feared, all the time we were listening to the noise of the guns--as though writing that I was sick with the fear that Edward had been killed might somehow make it true.

  But he is alive. Alive and unharmed. Or he was, as of last night.

  Though it does not seem right that I should be so incredibly thankful and relieved when I've spent the entire day seeing just how much suffering this war has already caused.

  The things I have done today--I still cannot entirely believe them.

  We are still in Brussels, all of us--Kitty, Harriet, Mrs. Metcalfe and I. I am writing this in my room at the Forsters' house. It is evening--I have just heard the clock strike nine--and it is pouring sheets of rain outside, and the wind has an unearthly howl. The soldiers out in the field must be passing a horrible night. And they have to fight in the morning. Everyone says that the Duke of Wellington has taken up a position at Waterloo, and has every expectation of leading his troops into battle tomorrow.

  I wish I could somehow send word to Edward. Or that he knew I was in Brussels. Or would that only make it worse for him, if he had to go into battle distracted by worrying about my being here?

  All of Brussels has been in an uproar, all day long. Men and women trying to beg, borrow, or steal horses to convey them to Antwerp; they say the roads leading out of the city are choked with traffic. I lost count of the number of times today I heard reports from hysterical townsfolk that the French were practically at the city gates. But I did discover that there is a limit to how afraid one can feel, and apparently I reached mine today. Because after a while, I noticed that I was scarcely bothering to pay attention to all the alarms and prophecies of destruction and despair.

  I did see Ruth very early this morning--we met in the Parc completely by chance, too, which seems incredible in all the confusion and uproar.

  She is travelling to Antwerp, with Lady Denby and her daughter. We had only time for a brief word. Even Ruth's usual composure was ruffled. She looked strained and pale. And she tried to persuade me to join them in Lady Denby's carriage. But I said that I would stay in Brussels.

  I am glad now that I did. At least, I suppose in a way I am glad.

  Because soon after I saw Ruth, the men wounded in yesterday's fighting at Quatre Bras started to pour into town.

  At first Kitty, Mrs. Metcalfe, Harriet and I went out into the streets to see whether we could gain any reliable news. But after a bare few minutes, it was clear that the injured and dying were in need of any assistance we could give. There were so many of them. So, so many. And a bare handful of army surgeons to see to them all.

  Mrs. Metcalfe looked at the scene before us: soldiers sprawled in the streets, huddled in the small shelter of doorways with blood-saturated, filthy rags pressed against their wounds. And then she turned to Harriet and said, "Go back to the house and tell that Madame Duvalle to give you every sheet and towel in the house. They can be ripped up for bandages for us to use out here."

  Harriet looked completely sick. Sick and ... lost. Since the regiments of the militia never are sent into battle, I suppose she was not at all prepared for what it would mean to be the wife of an officer in the regular army. "You mean you want to--to stay out here? I couldn't." She gulped, trying to swallow, and pressed her handkerchief over her mouth. "I can't--the smell--the blood--"

  To my surprise, it was Kitty who interrupted her. She had been staring at a man--a boy, really, he looked horribly young--slumped against the side of a house on the far side of the street. His head was all wrapped up in bloodied bandages. "Oh, do shut up, Harriet, and just go and fetch the towels," Kitty said. "What if Colonel Forster is somewhere out here?"

  Harriet's mouth opened and closed, and she turned a shade paler--her plump, pretty face was nearly green. But she did turn back to the house to fetch the household supply of spare linens.

  Kitty herself was sick three times before we had gone the length of the street, bandaging wounds and giving men drinks of water from the flasks Mrs. Metcalfe herself had gone back to fetch. We all were. I felt bile rise in my throat every time I looked at a raw wound or leg shattered by a cannon ball.

  Kitty and I kept going, though, working together when we co
uld. And even Harriet stayed through the early afternoon, when Mrs. Metcalfe began to look too tired to carry on. I think she would have carried on, for all that. But Kitty and I insisted she ought to rest, at least for a little while. And Harriet--looking greatly relieved--agreed to escort her grandmother back to the house.

  "Not that I blame Harriet." Kitty watched them go, stretching as though she were trying to ease an ache in her back. "I can't help but look at the men's faces. Every time I see a soldier with an officer's sash, I'm afraid it is--"

  She broke off. But she didn't have to finish. I felt exactly the same. The suffering all around us was horrible--so horrible it was almost numbing.

  And yet every time I saw a man in officer's uniform lying on the ground, my heart contracted at the thought that it might be Edward. And every time I saw that it wasn't he after all, I drew a breath of guilty relief.

  "I know," I said to Kitty.

  We each took a sip of water--lukewarm by that time--from the flasks we carried. And then I asked her, "How do you feel? Do you think you can keep going?"

  Kitty pressed her eyes closed for a moment. But then she nodded and tried to smile as she pushed perspiration-soaked hair back into the knot at the nape of her neck. "I'm fine. Only I must look worse even than I had thought. Three of the last men I helped called me Mother."

  And then we looked at each other, and I felt tears sting my eyes even as Kitty's eyes filled, too. Because so many of those too delirious with pain even to know their surroundings were calling for their mothers. Hardened veterans and raw young recruits alike.

  In a book, I would have discovered a new-found passion for caring for wounded soldiers, or at least found I had unexpected nursing skills. But in reality, neither of those happened. I am glad we could help the wounded men, but I hated every moment of today--the bloodied wounds and torn limbs; the copper-sweet stench of blood and sweat and filth.

  Some of the men were too much hurt and too exhausted even to walk, and had to crawl. Some simply collapsed and died on the streets; several times today I crouched down to offer help to a soldier, only to realise that he was already gone.