Jane Austen's Pride & Prejudice Sequel Bundle: 3 Reader Favorites

by Linda Berdoll

  As if in corroboration of that assumption, Roux settled them in with a carafe of wine and splashed a generous portion of burgundy into Darcy’s glass.

  “To your good health,” toasted Roux.

  “A votre sante.”

  Even oiled by spirits, their conversation began a little stilted. This, not because of the company, but because, howbeit Roux spoke nearly flawless English, Darcy insisted upon conversing in French. (His attempted exchange with the man with the horse told him he needed to practise. If he were to stumble in French, he would rather it be with Roux and not when lives were at stake.) Offering only that Fitzwilliam had arrived ahead of himself ready for battle, Darcy unbosomed as little else as possible of his own reason for being there. (He was astute enough to offer some information, if only in politeness of seeking it.) What he sought to learn of the coming clash was in regard to time and place (the British officers aboard the Barrett had been no better informed than he was). He hoped to hear the battle was not imminent, for he needed time to locate the commanders and their hospitals to search for Georgiana. He was disappointed.

  Roux told him, “The Prussians are just north-east of here. Le Fou Emperour is in Paris amassing what French troops are left. Word is rampant that the Belgian levies are untrained. Nouveaux. Napoleon’s soldiers are not many in number, but they are veterans of many conflicts and fiercely loyal to him.”

  Howbeit that was not a great surprise, it was yet unsettling to hear. Thus, Darcy changed the discourse. He looked about his opulent surroundings.

  “I am happy to see you and your household were spared vengeance.”

  “Oh that,” Roux said, dismissing the carnage of beheadings with a graceful wave of the hand. “Revolution is simply another word for readjustment. This, a little violent of course, but nothing catastrophic.”

  Darcy thought it probable that those who met the guillotine might well consider it catastrophic and wondered how his cousin could remain so unflappable in the bedlam of relentless insurrection and anarchy. He could only attribute Roux’s attitude to irrepressible Gallic forbearance and two decades of getting used to it.

  Recognising Darcy’s confoundment, his cousin explained, “We are happily some distance from Paris. People here believe themselves of Flanders or France as the situation warrants. And fortunately, we have only a few relatives amongst the Bourbons. Just enough to favour us if they are in rule and few enough to ignore if they are not.”

  “I was unaware we had any connexion at all.”

  Roux said, “My mother’s sister bore a child by a Bourbon. But it was not de consentement.”

  Aghast, Darcy demanded clarification, “Pray, I do not take your meaning. Are you saying that a member of the royal household violated her?”

  “She was a lovely woman, but a little indiscriminate with her affection,” said Roux. “I think the accusation could be no greater than…‘surprised.’”

  Roux guffawed at his own story, and although Darcy did not find the anecdote particularly amusing, he smiled almost as if he did. If ever he were to serve hypocrisy, he reasoned, this was the single time he would forgive himself. He wanted and needed Roux’s good graces. They talked into the small hours of the night, Darcy gleaning bits of political gossip amidst Roux’s witty quips and barbs. Finally, eighteen hours in the saddle and two days without sleep overcame him. He made his apologies and fell into bed fully clothed.

  The next morning rose with more dispatch than did Darcy and he chastised himself when he saw it would be noon before he could be upon his way. However, when he readied to leave, Roux insisted upon fitting him with a rather fine dun. As that would certainly make his travel to Brussels all the better for not having to dicker with his horse over a vacillating lead, he thanked him prodigiously.

  Albeit he carried with him only a single satchel, it was cumbersome on horseback and Darcy left it with Roux, wrapping up only a change of shirt and two miniatures (one of Elizabeth and one he had brought of Georgiana to prod faulty memories as he sought her) before tying the roll to his saddle. With that, he donned the sword he rarely wore and stowed his pistol in his waistband. Thereupon, with a look of resolve that gave Roux pause, he mounted his horse and headed east.

  He had not expected his odyssey to be easy. And that expectation was not denied that day nor for weeks after. It became a long and frustratingly fruitless search. Regiments were pouring into Brussels heavy with artillery. Dozens of cavalry companies had been lent to the Prussians and Dutch-Belgium commanders. Fitzwilliam’s regiment had been divided, but no muster carried names, only a list of units. Individual rosters were with each sergeant-major. Even more frustrating, all hospital corps were stalled en route, no one much of a mind to worry about where they were until actual casualties occurred. He was stymied at every turn.

  By the first of June, word had reached the British that Napoleon was preparing to march northward. It was then that word reached Darcy from one of the four men he had searching for Georgiana that she had been positively identified as boarding a troop ship for France. As they had suspicioned, she had obtained passage with a hospital corps. The account he received told that she had not used her real name, but it was most certainly Georgiana. She had claimed to be the wife of an officer. If he believed she would have been thwarted in her quest of hospital duty, Darcy saw he had underestimated his sister. He had no notion of whether she was travelling under an assumed name or if she truly was the wife of an officer. Regardless of her circumstance, if he could not find her before war commenced, he feared he would not be able to find her at all.

  Major George Wickham’s colonel had advanced him to a new regiment. Reassignment without demotion usually meant advancement in the military. This was true particularly during wartime, when careers were made upon one good skirmish. Exhausting all evasive action, Wickham had resigned himself to assignment outre-mer and thought a few medals would garnish his uniform quite nicely. A quiet adjutant position, possibly doing correspondence for his commanding officer in Brussels, would be no strain upon his nerves. Brussels in the spring was said to be lovely.

  But Major Wickham had never been less pleased. Albeit, in all good conscience, even he should not have been surprised. For the colonel reassigning him was also a cuckolded husband—cuckolded by Major Wickham—and the said same major found his newly reassigned person right in the midst of a most distressing battlefield.

  As long as he had been encamped near society, the army had not been unbearable for Wickham. Actual combat upon a filthy countryside, however, was entirely insupportable. He believed a demotion might have been an improvement (howbeit that was perilously close to being cashiered altogether). Was this dubious advancement not insult enough, the reason given for it came by way of one of his many vanities, his height. Yes, tall he was. Hence, the Grenadiers called.

  This was an assignment where he could not prosper and had a high probability of physical harm. Moreover, the Grenadiers had decidedly unfashionable uniforms. His least favourite things.

  He was in an undeniably unmerry pinch. Not only endangered and sartorially affronted, prosperity had been most unkind. That last little business at his previous post with those pesky gambling debts meant he was yet signing his lamentations to Lydia for more money with no higher rank than major. In light of some of his more provocative peccadilloes (even only those of which his army superiors were aware, which, of course, would be the only way to find a manageable number from which to gauge his greater body of works), it would be highly unlikely that he could expect to receive a promotion in the near, or even distant future. Even was that possible, the next step up from Major would be Lieutenant Colonel. And that was a rank that would expect of him some actual effort of occupation.

  No one weathered one’s own predicament with less forbearance than Wickham. It was evident that his superiors had hoped to corner him. Actually, he knew if they could legally use him for cannon fodder, there would have been a number who would have suggested it. To Wickham, they, in effect, had.


  “This,” he asked himself petulantly, “is what I am delivered of an army composed of dilettante officers and failed sons of the aristocracy?” (That he was very much a dilettante and might even be considered a failed son was lost upon him. Inferiority of connexion had always fed the greatest injury.)

  Hence, Major George Wickham, who had spent his life in pursuit of pleasure and aggressively avoiding even the most meagre hint of danger, was exceedingly displeased to be sitting upon the edge of the Belgian frontier. (One can only conjecture how additionally peeved he was to be looking into the hulking face of Napoleon’s army bulwarked only by a bunch of gangly grenade-lobbers.)

  The only possible positive of his situation was that he was not upon the same continent as his wife. In light of that good tiding, Wickham did not surrender to despair. He could not remember a time when he could not find one more shot in his locker of schemes. Hence, when he was not bemoaning his fate, he spent every spare moment conniving how to pull the hat-trick of staying in Europe—but out of the war—and getting rich in the process.

  Possibilities abounded.

  He saw no advantage in Brussels society, what with all the war business. But he longed to see Vienna! Now there was a city worthy of his talents (both honed and those yet untapped). He would have to find resources, of course. A possibility would be to sell his commission. If, that is, he was not killed where he stood. If Napoleon did not retake Belgium, if he was not captured by the French…

  It was difficult to maintain his ever-optimistic perspective, but he endeavoured to do so. In the interminable boredom of waiting to be shot out of his boots, however, he was hard-pressed to maintain his sanguinity. His most recent grand plan had failed miserably and his ego was stinging yet from being so decidedly rejected at Pemberley. (He disliked critiquing himself, but knew that betimes one must suffer harsh examination to perfect one’s technique.) Thinking back upon that visit, he endeavoured to determine just where he went wrong.

  He had been in desperate straits when he received Elizabeth’s letter. He had just been given orders assigning him to a battle-ready regiment and he was frantic for funds to buy himself free. A notification in her hand of some long-forgotten bush child (…What was it? A son? Yes, a son by that chamber wench…whatever she was called) seemed a perfectly good excuse to presume himself welcome unto the bosom of his boyhood home. Wickham had made an art of avoiding the pointing finger of woman with child, but if he could see an advantage of the situation in it, he could become as in want of family as needed.

  The letter arrived from Elizabeth yet at Pemberley in early spring. Wickham would have wagered a year’s salary (however little a major’s pay might be) that Elizabeth would not have written to him was not Darcy ensconced in London. Undoubtedly yet-lovely Mrs. Darcy would be quite alone and quite vulnerable in her want of company. Perhaps, he told himself, it was only because her husband was about that Elizabeth did not find herself felled under his considerable charms that day. Wooing unhappy wives had always been one of his particularly reliable abilities.

  That Elizabeth must be discontented, he never questioned. Darcy was certainly not of more handsome countenance than himself, nor was it in his surly nature to provide a woman the flattery and attention necessary to secure her…eh, affection. Thus, it was all quite vexing.

  A half-dozen years and he could yet not comprehend how Darcy and Elizabeth’s alliance came about in the first place. He would have wagered another year’s salary that Darcy would never have lowered himself to Elizabeth’s station to marry. Obviously she had not been with child, but of course a man of Darcy’s fortune could have easily side-stepped that responsibility had it been the case. He shook his head yet at Darcy’s arrogance. Wickham knew him fastidious, but he thought Darcy’s self-regard a trifle too meticulous to so roundly disdain the hoards of women swooning at his wealthy feet. For that reason, if no other, Wickham had been determined to take another measure of Elizabeth. For he surmised she held allurement far beyond simple fairness of face if she managed to snare the punctilious Darcy.

  As a man who prided himself upon appraising feminine attributes in a single glance, Wickham no more than cast his eyes upon Elizabeth that day than he assessed her nubile and ripe. If she was barren, it could fall to nothing but Darcy’s indifference. Which was fortune to him. Elizabeth was ripe, in need of an heir, and undoubtedly lonely. He had the dark hair and, of course, the height of Darcy. Hence, no one would suspect the difference in paternity when he impregnated her with the needed son (Wickham’s ego gave him no doubt he would father a son, such were his son-begetting credentials). Thereupon, when things were set in place, he would be able to live more than comfortably upon the money Elizabeth would bestow upon him to buy his silence.

  Or, the other possibility. He almost smirked at the thought of Darcy being informed his son was not his own blood (for that was the one drawback to his first plan; he could not throw that in Darcy’s face or there would be no silence to be bought). Darcy’s pride would never allow that he was a cuckold be cast about. There could be no more satisfying revenge for Wickham than to do just that. Yes, it was a grand scheme. There was no way it should have failed. If Elizabeth would not buy his silence, her husband certainly would. Wickham would have wagered a year’s salary on it. And he could have lived in comfort in Europe, in Vienna. Not sitting upon the edge of the Belgian frontier facing Napoleon’s army.

  In all of his mental machinations, however, the one thing Wickham kept forgetting was that he was an abominable gambler.

  Servants took Bingley’s hat and walking stick at the door. He was told that his wife was upstairs with Mrs. Darcy. Quite at home in the Darcy household, he went in search of them unaccompanied. He followed voices up the staircase and to a room at the end of the corridor. Both his wife and her sister were laughing and, the door open, he took a step into room. His easy smile in place, he was quite ready to appreciate what amusement caused theirs.

  “Good day, ladies,” he said jovially, “I see you are in finer spirits to-day…”

  But his voice trailed off and his smile was lost when he saw the baby that sat betwixt them upon the floor.

  Concurrently, Elizabeth and Jane looked up at Bingley, their expression mocking his somewhat. Both sisters’ countenances bore the additional burden of guilt, but for decidedly different reasons. Jane was contrite, for she knew that she had not scrupled to scheme behind her husband’s back. Elizabeth was mentally chastising herself for not having the courage to warn Jane that she had seen Bingley holding his baby not all that long ago and he would undoubtedly recognise him.

  Obvious recognition of the baby was upon his face then, but worse, the realisation as well that Elizabeth and Jane both knew of his own complicity. The plan she and her sister had so labouriously hatched had not lasted a fortnight before it went off the rails by way of their own scrutable faces. Lacking incumbent guile, the sisters obviously needed more practise at subterfuge.

  “Dash it all!” Elizabeth exclaimed to no one but herself, “Jane and I are hopeless connivers.”

  There was an exceedingly uncomfortable silence, broken only by baby Alexander. He reached out and grabbed a string of wooden beads that dangled from Jane’s hand and noisily put them in his mouth. All three watched him do that, then an uncomfortable silence engulfed them once again. Seeing it quite impossible to reinstate their planned fiction that the baby being at Pemberley was a great coincidence, Elizabeth stood, and thereupon eased by Bingley who yet stood in the doorway.

  She escaped the room but halted at the nearest doorway and entered, leaving the door ajar. She drew a chair next to it and sat, trying to hear what was being said above the pounding of her heart. The door closed behind Bingley and was followed by an agonising quiet. She believed Darcy right when he assured her so long ago that no one in an adjoining room at Pemberley could hear their lovemaking, the walls were that tight. She would have given up every claim of privacy to be able to hear what Jane and Bingley were saying then.


  The shock and disbelief she had felt the day she saw Bingley with Alexander and his mother had revisited her like a thunderclap and made the blood in her temples throb. So much had bechanced since then, it had, until that moment, faded into the haze of some far distant past. No more. Her outrage restored as well, she knew she was finding more vengeful satisfaction that Bingley would have to answer to his betrayal in his lifetime than a practising Christian should. (That had been the most galling thing about the entire affair Elizabeth believed; Bingley being spared penance before Jane.)

  But she knew her vengeance would be better appeased if she could hear what was being said. She opened the door wider and peered back down the hall at the thick oak door betwixt herself and Jane. Still hearing nothing, she boldly stepped out into the hall, leaned back against the doorpost and folded her arms. Her position improved, she heard muffled voices. Thereupon she heard weeping. Her anger boiled. This would not do!

  Her hands firmly upon her hips (and a slight jutting of her chin announcing a pugnacity that was not particularly flattering), she marched down the hall. How dare Bingley make Jane cry! She was the injured party! He should be upon his knees begging Jane’s forgiveness! Looking to either side, she searched wildly for some object to inflict retribution upon Bingley’s person, becoming angrier with each step she took. Not finding anything handy by the time she reached the door, she decided she was irate enough to take a pound of flesh from his hide without a weapon.

  She flung the door back and burst into the room. She wished she had not. At her sister’s intrusion, Jane looked up.

  It was not she who was crying.

  It was unsettling to Elizabeth to have intruded into so private a moment, and the only consolation she had was that, in view of the fact that Bingley was weeping wretchedly into Jane’s lap, he had not known she had witnessed it. She supposed he was suffering from his own misdeeds enough to satisfy her own righteous indignation. Pity was an emotion Elizabeth seldom found reason to summon, but she drew it forth in a measure large enough to keep herself from judging Bingley.