She retreated, her cheeks flaming, as Darcy bowed in his turn, and said pointedly: ‘Miss Bennet is my fiancée.’
The royal eyebrows went up. ‘Dashed good show. Enjoy the dinner.’
Elizabeth curtsied to the prince’s companion, whom she knew from the gossip columns to be his current mistress; to her surprise the lady was in her sixties, some ten years older than the prince. Lady Hertford acknowledged her with a nod, tilting her head with a knowing smile.
‘I have read of your service, Miss Bennet, and wish you an enjoyable evening. You deserve it.’
Elizabeth thanked her, and swallowed as Darcy led her away. ‘Oh my goodness! I would rather face Bonaparte’s cavalry.’
‘The prince took a shine to you.’ Darcy smiled, but she detected a note of anxiety.
‘I hope not. If embraced by such a mound of flesh, I doubt I would find my way out.’
‘Take care, my love, if he approaches you again.’
‘It is hardly likely, with so many alluring ladies to distract him. Anyway, I wager I can run faster.’
‘The secret,’ Colonel Fitzwilliam advised, ‘is to bide your time.’
As the banquet progressed, Elizabeth appreciated his good sense. The dishes, in conformity with the decor, were French: consommé, purée, two kinds of fish, duck, dumplings, lamb, beef, pheasant, vegetables, accompanied by a succession of fine wines. The soups and fish dishes were so delicious that she would gladly have asked for seconds, but she followed the colonel’s example and ate a half portion of her favourites, and a taste of anything else.
The dining room was lined with ornate carvings painted in gold, extending across the marble-coloured ceiling to chains supporting low-hanging chandeliers. A long table ran down the middle, so broad that conversation was possible only with your neighbours. While Colonel Fitzwilliam caught up with a fellow-officer, Darcy sat beside Sir James Webster, back from Brussels with Lady Frances Webster, whom Elizabeth had last seen flirting with Wellington. Soon bored with the officer on her right, Lady Frances applied to Darcy to change places, so that she could talk with Elizabeth. She was heavily pregnant, and sank into the red-and-gold upholstered chair with a tired groan.
‘Saw you at the ball,’ Lady Frances said. ‘Lovely dress.’
‘How long have you been back?’
‘A week.’ She sighed. ‘We should have let Bonaparte win, so that he would dig a tunnel under that confounded English Channel.’
Elizabeth laughed. ‘It was brave of you to accompany your husband in your, ah, condition.’
She regretted this intimate remark immediately, realising that she had already drunk too much wine, but Lady Frances was unoffended. ‘One more month. I hope for a son this time, much as I love my daughter.’
‘May I ask if you have a name in mind?’
‘Charles Byron if we get a boy.’ She glanced across at her husband, who was holding forth on his favourite topic of prize fighting, and winked at Elizabeth. ‘Lord Byron is a close friend—of my husband’s.’
And of yours, Elizabeth thought, but this time managed to hold her tongue.
‘Mr Darcy is a fine man.’ Lady Frances lowered her voice. ‘Yours is a love match, I wager.’
‘With my tiny dowry I hope so, for his sake.’
Lady Frances laughed, and leaned over to whisper. ‘Do enjoy the first few years. Children are a blessing but you can keep them for later. It is easily managed if you lock your bedroom door at certain times of the month.’
Elizabeth struggled to keep a straight face. ‘I see I have much to learn from you.’
‘We are granted only one life, and may as well enjoy it.’ She whispered again. ‘My husband and I are good friends, and he is a loving father to my daughter.’
Elizabeth hesitated, before asking: ‘You were talking with the Duke of Wellington at the supper. What sort of man is he?’
‘Abstemious and self-disciplined in most things. Even at home he prefers to dine on plain food and sleep on a bunk. He has just two indulgences: wine, and women.’ She leaned closer. ‘Not that I had much success in Brussels.’ She patted Elizabeth’s arm with a conspiratorial wink. ‘I’ll try again once little Charles Byron is out in the world.’
Elizabeth shook her head, amazed at such indiscretion. ‘I fear my life is less, ah, interesting than yours.’
Lady Webster smiled. ‘You are charming, cherie, but I think you disapprove of me.’
‘I disapprove of myself because I don’t disapprove of you.’
‘Ah!’ Her face lit up in a smile of genuine friendliness. ‘One of the tragedies of life, Miss Elizabeth, is that entertaining people are usually untrustworthy, while honourable people are dull. I believe you are an exception.’
‘You mean I am both untrustworthy and dull?’
Lady Webster guffawed, spraying wine across the table. ‘Will you visit us in London? James is always happy to see old schoolmates, and Mr Darcy must be one of the few men in the ton polite enough to take an interest in his absurd pursuits.’
‘I would love to visit you, Lady Webster. How about in the autumn, when with luck I will be married, and little Charles, or perhaps Charlotte, has been safely delivered?’
It was time for the sweet courses. Huge silver platters of profiteroles and tartlets were brought, along with bowls of exotic fruits. The Websters had gone to greet another couple, and Elizabeth was about to compare notes with Darcy when a distinguished gentleman dressed in a dark evening coat and white neck scarf approached them.
‘Mr Darcy? Bathurst. Major Percy pointed you out to me. Excuse me, madam. May I have a word?’
She observed with curiosity as Lord Bathurst took the empty chair beside Darcy. He was tall, with alert eyes, a strong chin, and close-cropped dark grey hair. ‘This is in my official capacity, since as you may know, I am Secretary of State for War and the Colonies. It has been drawn to my attention that you served as an adjutant in the 52nd Foot, and observed at close quarters the transport and care of the wounded.’
‘Transport, yes.’ Darcy glanced at Elizabeth. ‘Miss Bennet was more directly concerned with care.’
‘Ah.’ Lord Bathurst beamed at her as if complimenting a child. ‘Admirable. Let me come to the point. I have long felt that insufficient attention is given to the management of such tasks after a major battle. We have reports from surgeons, but these are incomplete because they focus on issues of treatment, such as—’ He glanced awkwardly at Elizabeth. ‘Such as the best moment to operate. What I would appreciate, sir, if you have the time and inclination, is your impression of the whole process. Conveyance to field hospitals. Nursing. Surgery. Transfer to hospitals in nearby towns. A written report would be best. As long or short as you like.’ He looked at Elizabeth. ‘No doubt Miss Bennet can provide valuable testimony.’
Darcy glanced at her again, with a slight raise of the eyebrows. He turned back to Lord Bathurst. ‘For my part, I would be glad to accept. If what I observed is typical, the transport and care of the wounded is performed mostly by camp-followers and local people, whose viewpoint is never canvassed.’
‘Excellent!’ Lord Bathurst lowered his voice. ‘I am asking this as a favour, Mr Darcy, not a paid assignment. It should be mentioned, however, that I have the ear of the regent, who is aware of your contribution, and may see fit to acknowledge it in the annual list. Of course I cannot promise. It is his highness’s decision alone.’
Darcy frowned, as if in distaste. ‘I agree that payment is out of the question: what you ask is not demanding, and would bring its own satisfaction. As for alternative forms of recognition, I believe others have a far stronger claim.’
Lord Bathurst was silent a moment, then nodded. ‘I understand. A pleasure to have met you, sir, and I look forward to receiving your report in due time.’ He bowed to Elizabeth. ‘Madam. My sincere appreciation again for your service.’
She thanked him, and managed to keep a straight face until he was out of earshot. Darcy met her eye severely, and she dissolved
into laughter.
‘I’m sorry!’ She looked down, red-faced. ‘I have had too much wine. Why are these people so absurd?’
‘Because they are exactly as we expect. Caricatures of themselves.’
‘Still, a good idea, is it not? The report?’
‘Will you help?’
‘Naturally.’ She grinned. ‘What award do I get?’
‘You want a title? How about Mrs Darcy?’
‘That will do nicely for now.’
61
Saturday 8th July 2pm
On a clear summer day—breezy, with cumulus clouds interrupting spells of sunshine—two carriages rounded the church and turned towards Longbourn. Darcy sat facing Georgiana and Mrs Annesley, while Elizabeth chattered excitedly with Jane; Bingley’s party followed in the carriage behind.
As they rolled into the forecourt there was a huge commotion. Darcy recognised Mrs Bennet’s squawking as she called Mrs Hill; Kitty Bennet rushed out, followed by two maids and a footman; Mary Bennet’s face appeared in a window. No sign of Mr Bennet; Darcy hoped he was not sick or away from home.
He smiled at his sister, who was observing the boisterous scene with alarm. ‘Bear up, Georgiana. One gets used to it in time.’
Elizabeth threw him a disdainful glance, but made no comment. In the other carriage, Bingley had already got down and advanced to greet the family.
Georgiana’s nerves were as nothing compared with the reaction of Mrs Bennet, once she realised that the Darcys were in the party. Bingley had written to confirm that his friend would again be staying at Netherfield—but without any clarification of his intentions towards Elizabeth. Mrs Bennet stumbled down the step, squawked again, and ran straight back inside with renewed appeals to Mrs Hill.
Darcy handed down the ladies, and held back with his sister while Elizabeth ran to embrace Kitty and Mary. As always it amused him to observe other families. Nobody could accuse the Bennets of being elegant or proper; still, there were compensations. Small quarrels sprang up constantly, but their affection was plain to see.
Mrs Annesley joined Bingley’s sisters and Mr Hurst, who sent compliments but declined to enter; their carriage set off for Netherfield. Alone with Georgiana, Darcy swallowed and led her to the doorway. It was time to confront Mrs Bennet.
Darcy waited in the parlour, recalling his last visit in the winter. Kitty as before was silent, overawed. Bingley sat beside his fiancée, relaxed and content now that a date could be announced. Mrs Bennet was unusually quiet, her eyes flicking between Elizabeth and himself as if she were trying to divine their feelings. Her countenance was oddly asymmetric, as if the left and right sides expressed different emotions—one anxious, the other hopeful. Mary had taken Georgiana away to the drawing room to view her sheet music. Only Bingley kept the conversation going, with occasional light interjections from Elizabeth.
Mr Bennet appeared at the door, looking distracted as if he had been reading, or pondering some deep matter; Darcy rose immediately to greet him.
‘Good afternoon, sir.’ Mr Bennet returned his bow. ‘A word, if you would be so good. In my study.’
Darcy left, exchanging a grimace with Elizabeth, and entered the familiar study, with its piles of books, and the coffee table holding a bottle of port and two glasses. On the desk he noticed a newspaper, with a passage marked. He could not tell whether it was the same passage, but Mr Bennet must know: Mr Gardiner would have alerted him by letter.
Mr Bennet indicated an armchair. ‘Refreshment?’
‘Later, perhaps.’ Darcy tried to keep his voice calm. ‘I can imagine how you must …’
Mr Bennet held up a hand. ‘Please. Allow me the satisfaction of having my say, even if you have already guessed my import. I should like, first of all, to thank you, from the bottom of my heart, for bringing our beloved daughter to safety. Any reservations on other matters are a pin-prick in comparison.’
‘Thank you. It has been a complex journey, and as you will know, my choice of route proved unfortunate, and exposed Miss Elizabeth to danger.’
‘Indeed.’ He pressed his lips together. ‘Was there really no alternative?’
‘In the weeks leading up to the battle, Brussels seemed the safest option. It was protected by British troops, and provided a relatively short crossing via Ostend.’
Mr Bennet nodded. ‘I realise it is easy to be wise after the event. But having seen the newspaper reports, I am at a loss to understand your decision, after the battle, to stay near Waterloo rather than sailing immediately from Antwerp. That my daughter should be exposed to the horrors of a field hospital after such slaughter! What could have possessed you?’
‘I saw it as my duty to remain near my cousin. As for Miss Elizabeth, I concur fully with your viewpoint. I sent her to Antwerp with a trustworthy local family, and there she stayed until news came that my cousin was wounded, and my whereabouts unknown. My instructions were that she should wait for some days, then leave for England. Instead, with remarkable courage, she made her way to the field hospital to confirm that I was well, then insisted on helping.’
‘You made no attempt to dissuade her?’
Darcy leaned forward. ‘Sir, had you been present, you would have understood. Casualties from the battlefield were arriving in their hundreds, with just a handful of camp-followers and nuns to feed them, bandage their wounds, and arrange transport to local villages. I care profoundly for your daughter, and under normal circumstances would shield her from such atrocities, but her sensibilities were of minor importance compared with her value as a dedicated, intelligent helper. I judged she was in no danger. Nor were the other women at the camp. The men depended on them, even worshipped them. It would have been far riskier to take her away, along roads swarming with runaways and soldiers of many nationalities.’
Mr Bennet blinked, and it was a while before he spoke again.
‘My Lizzy.’ He looked up, as if coming out of a dream. ‘So. What is this talk of betrothal? I was under the impression that as her father, I had some say in the matter.’ Mr Bennet jumped up to retrieve the newspaper from his desk. ‘Here! Your fiancée.’
‘At times during our journey, we had to explain why an unmarried man and woman travelled unchaperoned. We agreed that when necessary, we would pretend an engagement that did not exist.’ He took a deep breath. ‘Yet.’
‘You wish to marry Lizzy?’
‘More than I have ever wished anything.’
‘And does she return this feeling?’
‘Yes. That has been our understanding since we left Italy.’
‘Forgive me, Mr Darcy, but it has been my impression that she does not see you in this light at all.’
‘She has changed. As have I.’
‘Why?’ Mr Bennet poured port, and drank a sizeable draught. ‘My daughter has no dowry or connections to speak of. Why should a man of your standing go to such lengths to secure her hand?’
Darcy regarded him provocatively. ‘You believe Miss Elizabeth unworthy of me?’
He bristled. ‘I most certainly do not, sir!’
‘And nor do I.’
It was early evening. Darcy and Bingley had left for Netherfield. Elizabeth sat in her chamber, surrounded by mementoes of her journey: a wooden doll (she had given the other to Rosie Briggs), Alice’s sketches, and the rest.
The main business of the day was accomplished. Her father had demanded whether she had taken leave of her senses in accepting this man. Had she not always hated him? She had explained their history at length, including as an incentive Darcy’s role in rescuing Lydia. The change in Mr Bennet’s countenance had been comical, as if a balloon had deflated. Belligerence was replaced by relief, and then by astonishment as she told him of their subsequent meetings with Wickham in Brussels. The good news had been announced to the whole assembly. Bingley was affable; Mrs Bennet, hysterical; everyone else, overjoyed. Finally, adding a cherry to the cake, Bingley made Kitty’s day by inviting them to a ball at Netherfield.
The f
amiliar bedroom embraced Elizabeth in a cocoon of security. Here she had been a ten-year-old tearaway, fond of climbing trees, a fifteen-year-old girl in the shadow of Jane’s beauty, a twenty-year-old flirting with Wickham and needling Darcy. She returned to the letters that had awaited her at Longbourn, from Céline, Alice, Hilda, Maria Grazia, and others. Nothing from Regina. Smiling, she pulled out Fraulein Edelmann’s offering to read again.
Lieber Fraulein Bennet!
So, Elizabeth Bennet, Mrs Ashley, Mrs Darcy, or whatever you call yourself these days, I hope this finds you well, and that you still play the pianoforte (and make fewer mistakes).
I am back in Salzburg, among cultured people and fine coffee houses and accompanists who know what they are doing.
Herr Schubert came last week. He wants to marry a certain Fraulein Grob, daughter of a silk maker, but has been denied since he has insufficient means to support her. I exposed him to the full radiance of my charm without success. Men are truly fools.
Please put my mind at rest and confirm by return of post that my esteemed musical partner is restored safely to her homeland!
I cannot believe I paid 24 ducats for your performances at the concerts. I must have been demented.
Good-bye liebchen, from your friend
Hilda Edelmann
Elizabeth folded the letter and put it away, tears filling her eyes. An intense nostalgia overcame her as she reviewed, as if from a mountain top, all she had experienced—the people, the places, the adventures. Now a new chapter would open. She would be mistress of Pemberley. Jane would live at Netherfield, or perhaps nearer, in Derbyshire, if Bingley bought an estate there. But she would return to mainland Europe. She would sample again its variety of languages, religions, fashions, cuisines, landscapes, entertainments. They would see Salzburg. Her children would thrill at the Rhine, the Dolomites, the historic cities. She would keep in touch with Hilda and Lorraine, and one day they would meet again.
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