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

by Elliott, Anna

  I left. I did not know what else to do. But somehow Kitty's words--however sorry I truly am for her--cracked the tight hold I had been keeping on my control. "That is true, I didn't lose Edward in the battle," I flashed back. "Instead I get to sit by, helpless, while he slips further and further away from me by slow degrees every day!"

  And then I stopped, snatched my bonnet off the dressing table and yanked it on.

  Kitty blinked at me in surprise. "Where are you going?"

  "To see if I cannot accomplish at least some good today."

  I found the address Ruth had given me of the place Lady Denby had taken in town. It was just a few streets away from the Forsters' house. And Ruth was in, supervising the packing of her employer's things for their return to England in another week's time.

  She was wrapping some fine-stemmed crystal glasses in tissue paper when I burst in and seized her by the arm. "You are coming with me," I informed her.

  Ruth stared at me. "Georgiana, what on earth--"

  I did not stop, though. "You are coming back to the Forsters' house with me. And you are going to see Lord Tomalin, if I have to drag you into his presence."

  Ruth started to protest, but I talked over her. "If I can spend day after day, beating my head against the brick wall of trying to reach Edward, you can at least make one small attempt to reach Giles Tomalin--before he manages to will himself into an early grave."

  Ruth shook her head, her face blanching. "He must have a wife by now--or some woman, at least, waiting for him to come home to her."

  "There is no one. I asked, when he was first conscious. He said there is no one at all in his life whom he even wishes to write to."

  Ruth began, "But Georgiana, he won't want--"

  I stopped her, though, looking directly into her eyes. "Ruth, can you honestly tell me that if you go back to England without seeing Lord Tomalin, you won't regret it? That you won't spend the rest of your life wondering what would have happened if only you had?"

  Ruth was silent a moment, looking at me, her lips pressed into a tight line. But then she let out her breath and gave a quick, shaky nod of assent.

  Ruth was silent all the time we were walking back to the Forsters' house, her eyes fixed straight ahead and her hands clasped and twisting themselves together in front of her. She looked as we approached the door to the parlour more as though she were being taken to face a firing squad than a wounded young man. And when we first came through the door, I thought I was going to regret ever having meddled at all.

  All our other wounded soldiers have gone, now. The parlour was empty save for Giles Tomalin, lying on his pallet on the floor, his arms clasped behind his head, his eyes focused dully on the ceiling. He was at least dressed and shaved. At Mrs. Metcalfe and the surgeon's combined insistence, he has been forced into bathing and getting up to practice propelling himself twice about the room on crutches every day. But his face bore more than ever the smouldering, tethered-hawk look, and when he saw me come in with Ruth, he started convulsively upright, his expression darkening into fury.

  "Get her out of here! I don't need her damned pity-visit."

  Ruth had gone very still at the sight of him, her face turning ivory-pale once again. But at that she stiffened. "You think I came here out of pity?" Two bright spots of colour appeared in her cheeks and her fingers clenched. "Very well then. If the sight of me is so repugnant to you, I'll go."

  She turned and started blindly for the door. But not before I had seen her lips tremble and her eyes flood with angry tears.

  Giles must have seen it, too, because he swore under his breath and heaved himself up off the pallet, reaching for his crutches. "Ruth, wait--"

  Ruth didn't stop or turn, and Giles swore again as he propelled himself on his crutches after her. "Dammit, Ruth, will you stop a moment? I can't keep up with you this way."

  Ruth did turn, then. Her jaw was clenched, fighting the tears that still brimmed in her eyes. "Well?"

  Giles drew in his breath; his chest was heaving with the effort of movement made after so many weeks of illness. When he spoke, his voice was quiet, gentler. "I am sorry. I'm a swine. But not yet such a pig that I want to make you cry."

  Ruth's mouth trembled, and her stiff shoulders sagged as she shook her head. "I would not blame you if you did--after what I did to you, eight years ago."

  Giles' lips twisted in a brief, wry smile. "Yes, well. I ought to have ridden straight back to Derbyshire the instant I got your letter and shaken some sense into you. I would have--had I not been such a stiff-necked, proud young idiot." He stopped and then lowered his voice, looking at Ruth very intently. "I have regretted not trying to see you again every day for the last eight years."

  Ruth looked at him. And then the tears in her eyes brimmed over, spilling down her cheeks as she said, unsteadily, "I have, too."

  I backed out of the room, then, leaving them alone--though I don't think either of them so much as noticed I was there. I was sitting in the morning room--staring at a blank page that ought to turn into a long-overdue letter to Elizabeth and Fitzwilliam--when Ruth came in.

  Her face was still tear-stained, but she was smiling and her eyes shone. I always thought that an exaggerated figure of speech--but Ruth's whole face seemed to fairly glow with happiness.

  "I am going to resign my position with Lady Denby," she said. "But then I will be back directly. And we are going to be married. At once. As soon as we can find a clergyman or priest here in Brussels to do it." And then she laughed--a younger, freer laugh than I had ever heard from her. "I suppose that is shockingly sudden. But we've neither of us any family to object. Giles' parents are dead, now, and of course there is no one for me, either. And we neither of us want to waste any more time than we already have."

  I hugged her, and gave her my most sincere congratulations. And Ruth showed me the ring Giles had given her--his signet ring, emblazoned with his family crest. "He said he would get me another--one that is the proper size for my finger--as soon as may be," she said. "But that he wanted something concrete to mark this, otherwise he might start to imagine that today had all been a dream." Ruth sobered a little, then, as she turned the ring round and round between her fingers. "I know he still has a long journey of recovery ahead of him. And that it won't always be as ... as easy as it was today. But--"

  "But you will be together," I finished for her. "That is all that really matters."

  I am so very happy for Ruth--for her and Giles both. And I will be thoroughly sick of myself if I sit here weeping over my own diary like the heroine of a gothic melodrama. It's just that I can not help hoping--praying, with every part of me--that Ruth and Giles' happiness is a sign. A sign that I may yet somehow manage to reach Edward behind the walls he has put up between himself and the world.

  Thursday 6 July 1815

  It hardly felt at first like an answer to prayer when I heard Edward cry out in the middle of the night tonight. I knew it was a nightmare. He had them last year, too--before he even had to go back to war. And I know he has had them in these last two weeks since the battle. But every time I ask him about it or go to his room, he either denies dreaming at all or pretends to be asleep until I leave him again.

  I had almost given up on even trying to get him to speak to me of the dreams.

  Tonight, though--I suppose it was seeing Ruth and Giles together that made me get out of my own bed and go to Edward's door at the sound of his ragged, wordless cry. I did not knock--that would only have given Edward the chance to send me away--just turned the doorknob and went in.

  Madame Duvalle must have left a small lamp burning when she had brought Edward his supper tray, so that I could see the room clearly: Edward's coat, lying atop the wooden clothes press. The collection of medicine bottles on the bedside table from when he had been ill. And Edward, lying on the bed. He still wore breeches and a wrinkled shirt, open at the neck. His skin was drenched with sweat, and his chest heaved as though he had been running.

  "Ed--" I bi
t my lip before I could finish saying his name. Because he plainly was not aware of me; I wasn't even sure whether he was yet awake or still lost in the nightmare. His eyes were open, but he hadn't even turned his head or reacted at the noise of my opening the door.

  So instead I crossed to the bed, moving as quietly as I could. I hesitated--then sat down on the edge of the bed and lightly touched Edward's cheek. "Edward." I said his name again, but in a barely audible murmur. Still, the response was immediate: one of his hands flew up to seize my wrist and he sat bolt upright with a wrenching gasp.

  "Edward, it's all right." I sat very still. "You were dreaming, that's all."

  Edward was still breathing hard. But he shook his head as though trying to physically break free of whatever dream had gripped him, then rubbed his eyes. "Georgiana. What--"

  "I heard you call out. So I came in."

  I started to gently loosen Edward's grip on my wrist. And Edward started and swore, letting go his hold on me so quickly I nearly lost my balance and fell off the bed. His blind eyes looked past me, of course unseeing--but his face was stony hard. "Please tell me I didn't hurt you."

  "This?" My wrist was reddened where his fingers had gripped, but nothing more. "It's nothing, Edward. You won't even be able to see it in the morning."

  The next second I could have bitten my tongue out for my choice of words, because Edward gave a harsh, humourless sound that was almost a laugh and said, "I won't be able to see it. That's entirely true."

  His shirt was nearly plastered to his skin, and when he moved I could see the pull of the muscles in his arms and shoulders. The jagged line of the scar on his shoulder, mark of the wound he took at Toulouse last spring.

  "Edward, I didn't mean--" I stopped, unsure of what I could find to say. I suppose it was cowardly in a way, but I was still afraid of saying something that would only make matters worse. So instead I asked, "Do you ... would it help to tell me what you were dreaming about?"

  I thought at first Edward was going to refuse to speak to me again, or to say only that he didn't remember and that I ought to go back to my room. But then a change--a kind of ruthless determination--seemed to come over his face, and he said, "War. Battle. I still don't remember much about the fighting at Waterloo. But that doesn't mean I haven't plenty of other material for my mind to obligingly dredge up in nightmares. Tonight it was the time I lost two of my ensigns on the same day. They were right beside me, both of them--standing close together, just before we charged. And a French cannonball struck the spot where they were standing. Afterward, you could barely sort out the pieces of them--what belonged to which man."

  None of the tension had gone out of Edward's frame as he spoke. If anything, his muscles looked more rigid than ever, his lean face grimmer still as he spoke in a flat, determined tone.

  And I realised abruptly that his telling me did not mean that he was finally ready to confide in me or come out from behind his walls. Rather the reverse. He was telling me these horrors in an effort to drive me away.

  He said in the same tone, "I always wondered why I wasn't killed that day. Now I think it would have been better if I had been."

  "Edward, you don't mean that!"

  "Don't I?" Edward gave another harsh laugh. At least the stony control had finally started to crack; his voice was no longer flat but angry and taut as wire. "Are you telling me that you still want to marry me? A blind man whom you'll have to lead about by the hand--and who can't get through a single night without falling down a rabbit's hole of memories of blood and gore?"

  I did not let myself hesitate. Sergeant Kelly had told me not to push Edward, to be patient, wait and give him time. But if Kitty yesterday had managed to crack some measure of control inside me, Edward's words, the look on his face, had just smashed it entirely.

  I was furious, afraid, uncertain--all the emotions churning together in what felt like a thunderstorm under my ribcage. But I leaned forward and kissed Edward, fitting my mouth against his.

  It helped, I think, that he wasn't able to see me and anticipate what I was about to do. I felt his breath go out in a rush of surprise and he tried to pull away. But I wrapped my arms around his neck and wouldn't let go--and after a moment he surrendered to the kiss with a half-groan and kissed me back hungrily, his hands sliding up to tangle in my hair.

  When he finally did break away, he was breathing hard. I could feel his heart pounding through the thin fabric of his shirt. But he shook his head as though trying to clear it and said, "Georgiana, you don't--you can't--"

  I was still angry, I suppose--too angry to try to go carefully or guard what I said. "I can't what?" I demanded. "Love you? Yes I can! And you, Edward, certainly can't tell me what I can and cannot do."

  Edward's jaw dropped open slightly, but I went on, "What if our places were changed? What if it were me that were blind right now? Would you still want to marry me?"

  Edward blinked, a furrow appearing between his brows. "Of course, but--"

  "But what? But I couldn't possibly love you as much as you love me?"

  Edward shook his head. "It's not--"

  "It's not the same thing?" I finished for him. "Yes, it is--it's exactly the same! I want to marry you, Edward. Not some romanticised, idealised version of Edward Fitzwilliam. I want to marry you exactly as you are now--whether or not your sight ever comes back. Whether or not you ever get over dreaming about your time at war. You are still you--blind or no. And I still love you, and I always will."

  He looked as though he were about to argue. But I leaned forward and touched my lips lightly to his neck, then his jaw. I felt him shiver slightly at the touch, and I said, more quietly, "Do you know what I thought when I came in here tonight? The very first thing that came into my mind?"

  Wordlessly, Edward shook his head. I shifted again so that I could look up into his face, trailing my fingertips across the lean, hard angle of his temple and cheekbone. "I thought that if only we were already married, I could be in bed with you when you had a nightmare, not all the way across the hall."

  I kissed him again, softly, lingeringly.

  "Georgiana, I--" Edward's breathing had gone ragged. "I think you're vastly overrating my capacity for self-restraint."

  "Good." I caught his hand and held it when he moved to pull away, off the bed. "Because I don't want you to keep shutting me out. And I don't want to wait until we're back in England to marry you. Ruth and Lord Tomalin are going to be married here in Brussels as soon as they can. I think we should be married here, too."

  Edward's breath went out, and he said, "All right."

  "After all, I'm sure my brother would not--" and then I stopped, abruptly realising what Edward had just said. "Did you just say all right?"

  Edward laughed at the astonishment in my voice. I hadn't heard him laugh in so long--not since the battle. The sound made my heart seem to turn over.

  "I told you you were overestimating my powers of self-control," he said. Our fingers were still interlaced, and he turned my hand and kissed my palm. "Yes, I'll marry you. Tomorrow, if you like." He laughed unevenly again. "Anything to save me from finding you in my bedroom at one o'clock in the morning--and having to remember that I'm supposed to be a gentleman."

  I laughed, too. And then I looked up at him and said, "Edward, are you ... are you really sure?"

  "Am I sure?" Edward pulled me towards him and into his arms, burying his face against the crook of my neck. His voice was soft with regret as he whispered, "God, I wish ... I wish that I could see your face again." But before I could answer he exhaled an unsteady breath and said, "Georgiana, I know I have a long way to go before I'm all right--I don't know that I ever will be entirely all right, or able to talk about any of this easily. All I can promise you is that I will try--I will try. But am I sure that I want to marry you?" I felt his chest shake as he gave another half-laugh. "God, you have no idea how sure I am."

  Saturday 8 July 1815

  I am going to write it all down exactly as it happe
ned. I will never believe that it really did happen otherwise.

  Edward and I spoke this evening to the elderly clergyman of the Eglise protestante du Musee de Bruxelles--the only Protestant church in Brussels, as it happens, since the country is almost exclusively of the Roman Catholic faith.

  Not that I would have cared especially--if a village witch could legally marry Edward and me, I would kiss her on both cheeks and let her perform the ceremony with my sincere thanks. But a Catholic priest would refuse to marry us on the grounds that we are neither of us Catholic. So it is just as well that we found Father Jean-Pierre Charlier. Who is very nearsighted, very kind--and has consented to marry us by special license in two days' time.

  Two days. That seems incredible, even now. Though it shouldn't--not after tonight.

  Edward and I were coming home from the church. Night was beginning to fall; the air was smudged with purple shadows, and the shopkeepers were closing their shutters and locking their shops.

  It was the furthest Edward has been from the Forsters' house since Sergeant Kelly carried him inside two weeks ago, and we walked slowly, my hand in his to guide him around the other pedestrians or over any broken or muddied patches of the streets.

  I was afraid that might bother him, bring home the reality of his condition more sharply still. But Edward only asked me quietly to describe to him as much as I could of what I saw.

  It was hard not to edit my account. The streets are still so full of all the reminders of the battle. Broken supply wagons. Wounded and recovering soldiers--pale and drawn-looking, many missing legs or arms and hobbling on crutches or canes. One poor man had lost both his legs and was dragging himself along on a kind of wheeled cart.

  But if Edward could accept having to ask me to be his eyes, the least I could do was serve as honest ones. So I told him everything.