There was not much question of that, Elizabeth thought – a week on holiday racking up debts and a week cooing to each other in a cell was hardly a full picture of a marriage. "What do you think it will be like when you are forty?" she asked.
Lydia stopped to think again. "These are not the kinds of questions I was expecting you to ask me, Lizzy," she said, with a tinge of irritation. "What a silly thing to ask – of all the things!"
Elizabeth waited. As Lydia thought, her face softened into something like warmth, and finally she said, "We talk of how he is holding up, and what his dinner and night were like – what we have been doing since we last saw each other. I tell him what I have been doing with myself – sometimes I show him ribbons and things I've bought, or bring him a little bit of cake – and some for the other men, too, of course."
Elizabeth was surprised at her sister's thoughtfulness in bringing sweets to the other men in the gaol. That was not the Lydia of the past.
With any luck a superficial marriage might be a lasting one. For all her annoyance, she did not want to see Lydia trapped in an unhappy marriage for life. Yet Elizabeth did not want the cynical marriage offered by Mme. Pommeau.
I do not want to have to fight my husband, she thought. I simply want a man I like.
But what kind of man would be pleasant to talk to – what kind of man would enjoy her conversation as much as she enjoyed his?
The answer came to her directly and straight, like an arrow: she had enjoyed no man's company half so much as, over the past two weeks, she had enjoyed Mr. Darcy's.
Elizabeth sat back in her chair, her back still extremely straight and her coffee cup in her right-angled hand. Lydia smiled, thinking her words had set her sister on a path of self-reflection.
"Do let me know if you are in need of any more advice," Lydia said, "we are sisters – we must help each other!"
The front door opened, and Mr. Darcy stepped in. Elizabeth caught his eye, and he caught hers. For a very long moment, she forgot how to breathe.
"A letter has come," Mr. Darcy said. He held out a folded paper. "It is from your family, I believe. I hope you might read it."
Behind him, Col. Fitzwilliam stepped in. "Good news!" he said buoyantly. "We leave tomorrow!"
Avoiding all eyes, Elizabeth snatched the letter from Mr. Darcy's hand and fled upstairs.
Chapter 33.
Elizabeth pulled together her things as she attempted to order her thoughts. As Mr. Darcy had suggested, the letter was from Jane.
Dear sister, I write in haste and in the greatest felicity. This morning Mr. Bingley came to see Father – he was only a day in the country but rode over to Longbourn immediately – I will be brief, the long and the short of it is that he tells me he is the happiest gentleman in the world, and I am sure I believe him, for I know I am the happiest girl...
Elizabeth skipped over Jane's narration of Mr. Bingley's proposal, a jumbled and skipping re-telling that showed more clearly than any words the jubilation of her sister's mind. Her eyes rested on the line that she had read ten or twelve times since she opened the letter, sitting frozen on the bed.
And the most curious thing, that Mr. Bingley said he took his courage from a letter from Mr. Darcy, all the way from France…
Mr. Darcy had written to his friend to set him right and place him back in Jane's life. Among the danger and intrigue, the exploration of a new place and his work with Col. Fitzwilliam, Mr. Darcy had taken the time and expense to restore her sister's happiness.
All the reasons Elizabeth did not care for Mr. Darcy were melting into the air, and the more she grasped at them, the more they eluded her. He was arrogant and unkind, she reminded herself – but he spoke so cordially and well, and since they reached the shore of France, had never been anything but gentlemanly and attentive. He was a vain snob – but even if she truly believed it, here in her hand was proof that this sentiment, if he ever truly possessed them, had utterly changed.
It was no matter! Elizabeth told herself. In three or four days they would be back in England, and Mr. Darcy would be gone from her presence and therefore surely gone from her thoughts. Whatever change had been wrought in him was immaterial to her. Elizabeth folded the letter and thrust it deep into her case, and on top of it she pushed her heaviest cloak.
She looked around for more to pack and began to fold Lydia's borrowed ballgown, to return it to its owner.
From downstairs, a crash came from the kitchen, followed by several clangs, sharp words in French, and the strong acrid smell of smoke.
Elizabeth ran down the narrow staircase to the front room, where Lydia was playing cards with Mr. Darcy and Col. Fitzwilliam. The gentlemen had leapt to their feet.
"Is everything all right?"
Mme. Pommeau appeared in the kitchen door, her cap askew. She indicated that dinner was likely to be delayed – if indeed it appeared at all – her greatest apologies – perhaps the gentlemen and ladies would like to avail themselves of a meal elsewhere. Her brother owned a small restaurant – do not think of the bill, they would be her guests. In general she gave the intense impression of someone who would welcome her house alone for a brief period to set things right; and even Louise, who was attempting to help scoop up the overflowing pot into another bowl, was politely but firmly shooed out the kitchen door.
"It is called La Petite Auberge," Mme. Pommeau called out to them, wiping her hands on her apron. "It is only the next street down, and to the left – ask anyone for the way."
Elizabeth was dismayed at their landlady's distress, but quietly excited about the prospect of venturing out in Rouen again before their departure the next morning. Lydia did not care where they went so long as the meal was not delayed; so within fifteen or twenty minutes all were dressed for dinner out, and out the door.
La Petite Auberge was a more relaxed gathering place than the formal restaurant where they had eaten their first proper meal in the city. The four of them sat at a square table in a low-ceilinged old room with heavy wooden beams of a rich deep brown, polished with age. Rouennaises of varying ages sat around in mixed groups, mostly keeping to themselves, though not unfriendly. Their host welcomed them at once, enthusiastically, and proceeded to bring endless dishes that Elizabeth could only pick at, and a large clay jug of good light red wine, which was never empty. The table was by the window, and the building was on the main street; many people were passing by, on their way home, and Elizabeth looked out offhandedly to see whether there was anyone she recognised. Many ducked under the low stoop and came inside. The room slowly filled up with low and friendly chatter.
She sat next to Mr. Darcy, yet could not bring herself to catch his eye or start a conversation. She felt so thoroughly abashed at her previous hostile feelings towards him, and how sharply she had expressed them, that she could not bring herself to even thank him for his bringing Jane's letter back to her – an additional rudeness that ate at her and fed her discomfort the longer the silence went on. For his part, Mr. Darcy was cordially attentive to his cousin and Lydia, never pushing her past the bounds of polite nodding, for which she was grateful – and which also fed her self-recrimination.
An hour after they began eating, around sunset, candles were lit, and something more ominous: musicians began to appear, creeping into the corners and setting down their instruments. These musicians ordered wine, which was brought to their stools, and more to the tables all around the room.
"It is very popular," Col. Fitzwilliam observed to their host as he topped up their own jug. So many people were there that some were standing at the serving bar to drink wine and eat bread and hot cheese.
"Oui – everyone comes here tonight," he said, proudly. "It is the fete, and everyone is welcome. If you stay you will see some dancing."
"Dancing!"
The tables near the front were cleared away by consensus, with the diners finishing early and standing in anticipation – indeed it seemed those spaces were most coveted. El
izabeth looked at Lydia, whose eyes were bright at the prospect, and Louise, who was leaning forward with interest.
"I have heard of these, but never seen one," she said. "I think it is a festival to celebrate the end of the spring planting for the year. There will be somewhat wild – " A loud beat began, from a man in the corner with a shallow wide drum he held in both hands. " – music," Louise finished loudly, over the thumping noise.
Col. Fitzwilliam, always courteous, immediately asked Lydia to dance; perhaps he was worried what might happen if she was left unattended. The dance was not a set country one, nor a formal style that Elizabeth knew. The music rollicked and looped with a whirling rhythm that she felt thumping in her heart. One man played an accordion, another a fiddle. The couples around them were not dancing to a strict set, but each to their own pair. Some moved into dark corners, and out of them again.
She looked up and caught Mr. Darcy's eye.
He had been watching her. Something strange crept into her chest, and began to unfurl itself there. Mr Darcy stood, and held out his hand.
"It seems the custom," he said. "Would you dance with me?" His voice was low, and held promise.
The tavern was full of revellers: they were not alone.
"It would be my pleasure," Elizabeth said, and took his hand.
Mr. Darcy pulled her into a hold like the waltz they had danced at Le Havre. But this was not an officer's ball with its strict formality: the dancers around them were light and loose, the beat of the music wrapping around them. Mr. Darcy's form was strong and sure under hers, and he led her into a whirling, spinning step, that would have thrown her off had his arm not been securely around her waist, holding her safely in place. Elizabeth forgot every part of their history; this Mr. Darcy was so different from the reluctant dancer of their first acquaintance that he almost seemed like a changeling or a fairy prince.
Even his look was different. The candlelight glinted in his dark hair, and his eyes were shadows.
"You look very fine tonight," he said, low enough that only she could hear. "You look as though you have the stars in your hair."
"You are being foolish," Elizabeth said. She began to laugh. She could not bother with propriety at this moment; she was having too much fun. The wine was singing in her head, to the rhythm of the drum. "You do not have to win me over. Your company is pleasure enough."
*
What a foolish thing that had been to say. He was like a tongue-tied schoolboy around her – still. Perhaps he always would be.
Perhaps that was all right.
She was so light and perfect in his arms. Though Darcy did not know the steps, nor the tune, she followed him perfectly. It was so easy with her. Though they had only been dancing for a few minutes, it felt as if he had been holding her in his arms for hours. Darcy felt he could dance with her forever.
"Your company is pleasure enough," Miss Bennet said, her wide dark eyes smiling up at him, and Darcy for a moment could not hear anything except the ringing in his ears.
Miss Bennet had been so silent through dinner that he worried her letter had not been from Jane after all, or that she had received some bad news. He had a letter from Bingley, expressing his great thanks for Darcy's advice and his extreme happiness in the felicity of his own bride; surely Jane must have written to her sister. Perhaps she was sad at their departing tomorrow; Darcy certainly was. The past two weeks had shown him a whole new world – the thrill of exploring a new society, the pride of being of service.
And through it all Miss Bennet had moved into his mind and heart like a star coming into its sphere, eclipsing everything else with its lucid illumination. He had esteemed her at Netherfield, and been driven to incoherent distraction at Rosings; but even those feelings were eradicated by the strength of his admiration for her now, seeing her in action. Her bravery and sense in accomplishing her task, her lively expression and arch wit, her instinctive pleasure in new friends, her patience in the face of her ridiculous sister – rather than stumbling at her family, Darcy now almost appreciated them for showing off how very dear Elizabeth was, a bright jewel set off in a case.
She was looking up at him with a quirk of her mouth, leaning in to speak to him – perhaps to make some observation on the music, or an amusing comment on one of the other couples.
It might have been the atmosphere, the wild music. It might have been the heady French wine that he, nervous to be sitting so close to Elizabeth with her so silent, partook of rather liberally. Darcy could hardly think. Her breath was warm and soft on his cheek. They turned around again, spinning into a dark corner lit with only a dim candle, her body close to his.
For the first time in his life, Darcy was ungentlemanly.
He dipped his head and kissed her.
Chapter 34.
Elizabeth wanted to ask whether Mr. Darcy would like to stay for another glass of wine, hoping he would not want to return to the hotel too soon to prepare for their departure. The music was so loud that she stood on tip-toe to speak to him, bringing her face close to his – and before she could form the words, he lowered his mouth to hers. Elizabeth did not even have time to close her eyes. His lips brushed hers soft, feather light, then returned, insistent.
She hardly knew what she was doing. Caught in the haze of the music and the dance, her arms were already around him; one on his shoulder, one caught in his hand. She lifted her hand to the nape of his neck to steady herself and – she was dizzy, she was overwhelmed – encourage him on.
His hands were unmoving, holding her still and a little apart from him; only his mouth moved on hers. The kiss lasted a moment – it lasted a lifetime.
Mr. Darcy lifted his head from hers. He looked dazed, as if he had just swum the Channel and then been decked in the face. Elizabeth might look the same. Her mouth was burning. All of her was burning.
This must be only because they were here. They would return to England and everything would be the same. He would forget this – surely he would regret it.
But Elizabeth did not regret it.
She pushed herself up on tip-toe again and lifted her face to his again.
It took several moments to hear the insistent voice beside her. "Miss Elizabeth – Miss Elizabeth."
Elizabeth pulled back and looked around, dazed. Mr. Darcy dropped his hands from her immediately and stepped back; she missed the nearness of him instantly.
It was Louise, white and anxious. "Miss Elizabeth, we must leave now. Some of the women are whispering – they say war has broken out again. Please, come – they say they are arresting the English, even civilians. Please, we must go!"
War!
Elizabeth came back to her senses with a jolt. They must find the others. Mr. Darcy likewise stood at alert attention, scanning the room without being seen to do so.
"Near the door," Elizabeth whispered, spotting Lydia. Mr. Darcy nodded without a word, and Elizabeth slipped ahead of him, Louise following behind, looking over her shoulder.
When they reached the steps out of the building, Col. Fitzwilliam threw an arm around Mr. Darcy to step between the ladies and the crowd, and looked out over the room casually.
"We must leave at once," Col. Fitzwilliam said. "The Army may have transport, and we must at least return to Le Havre, where there will be more men there to help us."
"We must save George," Lydia said.
The others looked at each other. Elizabeth's heart dropped like a stone.
"He will be a prisoner of war," Col. Fitzwilliam said. "It would – technically – be a – never mind. I cannot count how many regulations and rules of war it would break. Never mind your own safety."
"I do not care for my own safety, if George is not with me," Lydia said. Her back was straight and her eyes were blazing – she was the very image of a True and Loyal Wife.
Col. Fitzwilliam stared at her, emitted a strangled sound, and turned to walk out of the building. Mr. Darcy held back as if to speak to Elizabeth, bu
t stopped and shook his head; he walked quickly to catch up his cousin.
"Come – we will fetch Mr. Wickham," Elizabeth said, hardly knowing how to reassure her sister but knowing they had to leave quickly. "Come, do not fear!" As they walked quickly to the hotel, a plan was coming together in her head.
She dropped back slightly.
"Louise," she said in a low voice. "How brave are you feeling tonight?"
Chapter 35.
Elizabeth knew they had to move quickly. She could not help asking, for the eleventh time, "Are you sure you're all right with this?"
"If I were not, I would have said so one of the other dozen times," Louise said. She was not aggrieved, but she was bordering on it. It was beginning to rain, a light drizzle that threatened worse by the time the night was over.
The pass Mr. Darcy had mentioned, which would give them safe conduct to the prison and out, was in her coat pocket. Elizabeth patted it, and patted it again; and finally left her hand resting on it, although it gave her figure an awkward loping hunch.
Louise strode forward as if she had been made for it. Elizabeth could very well picture the wives of France storming the palace if Louise had been there to lead them.
"Bonsoir," Louise called out imperiously. "I am a citizen with a message for the keeper."
"Bonsoir, citoyenne," the gaoler said respectfully. Elizabeth kept back, her hood a little over her face. She did not look much like Lydia, but he might recognise the similarity.
Louise tossed the pass down carelessly. "I have been charged to bring the English soldier into the army's charge," she said. "Release him to me at once."
The gaoler put on his spectacles, and examined the pass. "This is dated three weeks ago," he said, doubt colouring his voice. "You say you have been charged with this tonight?"
"We are at war, citoyen!" Louise said. "Of course there was no time for a new stamp."
He still looked dubious, but Elizabeth harrumphed ominously, and he seemed to decide it was not worth it to risk the wrath of two female citizens.
For Miss Bennet's Honour Page 14