We were passing through a narrow, cobbled lane when it happened--so fast I hadn't even time to scream. A man came looming up at us out of the shadows of one of the doorways, launched himself at Edward and knocked him to the ground.
I heard Edward's head strike the pavement--I think I did scream, then. But the next moment I froze, my whole body turning cold as the light from a shop lantern fell across the attacker's face. It was George Wickham.
I do not know, still, what he intended. Mischief, certainly. Perhaps robbery, likely coupled with revenge--for my having refused to give him the money he wanted to flee from town. I cannot believe, whatever George Wickham's faults, that he intended anything more sinister. Though he did have a knife. I saw the blade flash in the glow of the lamplight.
Edward, though, reacted instantly, even as he lay sprawled on the pavement. Wickham had fallen almost on top of him, and Edward executed some kind of a lightning-quick scissor manoeuvre that sent Wickham flying over his head and landing with a crash on the cobblestones. I heard Wickham groan as he thrashed on the dirty cobbles, trying to rise.
Edward was already on his feet, though, hauling Wickham up, as well. I don't know how he managed, without being able to see--I suppose by touch and sound.
Edward grabbed Wickham by his collar, drew back and delivered a blow to Wickham's jaw that sent him reeling again.
The rest of the fight was a blur. I think Wickham might have managed to land one or two glancing blows. But he was off balance from Edward's punches, unsteady--and they were grappling at such close quarters that Edward hadn't really any need of being able to see. The end result was that Wickham turned tail and ran off, limping and swearing.
"Was that--" Edward began, when the sound of his footsteps died away.
"George Wickham." I was still so stunned that my voice sounded far off and tinny in my own ears.
"I thought so." Edward wiped blood from his lip. "I recognised his voice."
I nodded. "He came a few days ago--to ask for money. He--"
But Edward was not listening. A slow grin was spreading over his face as he turned to me. "I can still do it!" He laughed--a free, easy laugh--and wiped his mouth again with the back of his hand. "Georgiana, did you see that? It didn't matter about my eyes--I could still fight him!"
I stared at him. And then, when I could trust my voice enough to speak, I said, enunciating each word, "Edward Fitzwilliam. I've spent the last two days telling you how much I always have loved you and always will. We have a license to be married in another two days' time. But what really makes you feel a whole man again is the fact that you can still punch another man in the jaw?"
Edward laughed again, and I glared at him--which was a wasted effort of course, given that he couldn't see the look--and said, "I will never, ever understand men."
Edward was still grinning. "Yes, well. Just so long as you love--" and then he broke off, his whole body going taut and still as he suddenly gripped my hand.
"Georgiana." His voice was husky and all at once tense as his muscles. "Georgiana, is there a light just there?" He gestured to the lighted shop lantern that hung above the sign for the bakery shop on our right. "A hanging lamp of some kind?"
I nodded shakily. "Yes--that's right, there is."
"I can see it!" Edward's hand shook as his fingers tightened around mine. "Just a kind of yellow glow--but I can see it!"
And that was just the first. Edward and I sat up together through the night--we neither of us could have slept--in the downstairs parlour of the Forsters' home. And slowly, steadily, his vision cleared. Cleared enough that by the time the first pale-grey light of dawn was filtering through the windows, Edward could read the words of the newspaper that Colonel Forster had left lying beside his chair.
Mr. Powell came and gave it as his opinion that the blow to the head Edward took in battle caused a swelling of the brain--and that the second blow, the one he took when Wickham knocked him down tonight, somehow relieved the pressure and cured his sight.
Life is so strange--my own private miracle, and I owe it to George Wickham. Or maybe that is fitting, somehow, in the grander scheme of things.
When Mr. Powell had gone and Edward and I were alone again, Edward drew me close, framing my face with his hands and gazing down at me with a look in his dark eyes that made my bones feel weak and my head light. I laughed, a little unsteadily, and said, "Be careful. Mr. Powell warned you against straining your eyes for a few weeks' time. You'll wear them out entirely if you keep looking at me so."
Edward only shook his head. His voice had gone husky again. "It would be worth it, at that," he said. He swallowed. "You've been my guiding light--my Northern Star all through out these last weeks. I would never have come through them--would never have recovered at all, I don't believe, if it had not been for you. And now, to be able to actually see you again--" I realised that his eyes were wet as he continued to gaze at me. "I love you," he said. "More than you can ever possibly know."
I stood on tiptoe so that I could kiss him, then. And after a long, long while, I drew back just enough that I could murmur against his lips, "Oh, but I do know. Because I love you the same."
Epilogue
Letter from Georgiana to Elizabeth Darcy:
Tuesday 11 July 1815
Dearest Elizabeth,
Kitty should be with you in no more than a fortnight's time. She left Brussels yesterday, and will sail from Ostend on the 13th.
I have been debating whether I ought to write this to you or not. But you are her sister. And Kitty will be staying with you at Pemberley. I think you ought to know.
I wrote you, of course, of Captain Ayres' death in the battle at Waterloo. But I was entirely wrong about the manner of Kitty's grief over his death.
She came to my room the night before last, to say good-bye. But even after we had said our farewells, she did not go at once, but sat down on the edge of my bed and was silent for a long moment, curling and uncurling one of the ribbons on her dressing gown. When she finally looked up at me, I saw that she was crying--the first tears I have seen her shed since the news came about Captain Ayres having been killed.
"You know," she said, "I knew--even all the time John was being so kind to me in Ostend, all the time we were together on the night before the battle. I knew that we were still completely unsuited to each other in disposition, in our temperaments. That however shabbily I had treated him, I had been right to call off the engagement. Because marrying me would still make his life a misery. We'd nothing in common, really. But--"
Kitty's voice wavered and she dashed impatiently at her eyes before going on, the words coming in a dull rush, as though some inner dam had broken. "But John asked me that night we saw him at the Duchess of Richmond's ball ... he asked me whether there was not yet a chance of matters being righted between us. Of us becoming betrothed again. And I didn't have the heart to tell him no--not when he was just hours away from marching off to war. So I said that of course there was a chance." Kitty's voice broke and she swallowed hard. "As if it wasn't bad enough that I betrayed John by flirting with Lord Carmichael--I also let him go to his death believing a lie."
I said, "You gave him a last night of happiness--of hope for the future. You surely can't blame yourself for that."
But Kitty shook her head. "But he knows now." Her hand clenched on something, and I saw that it was the gold watch Captain Ayres had sent to her with his last breath. "He must. He's in Heaven now. Which means that he knows that the girl he thought he was in love with--the girl he thought of as he lay dying--was vain and silly and selfish and utterly unworthy of his regard--"
I stopped her. "If he does know anything, it's that you have a truly kind, generous heart. And that you esteemed him enough to wish him happy."
Kitty wiped her eyes again and thanked me in a dull, exhausted voice. She still looked white and strained when she hugged me and left my room to finish her packing.
But she will find her way in time, I know she will.
Why I am I so sure?
For one, she has you waiting to help her--the best sister anyone could wish. And for another--
For another, I believe everything happy in the world is possible just now.
Edward and I were married yesterday morning. The church--the Eglise protestante--is a beautiful place, all airy, high ceilings, decorated with white plaster-work and tall Corinthian columns. It was once the chapel of the Palace of Charles de Lorraine. Mrs. Metcalfe and Harriet were my only attendants, and Sergeant Kelly--I wrote to you of him, didn't I?--had special leave from his regiment to serve as one of our witnesses. The entire ceremony was in French, since pastor Charlier speaks barely a word of English. But I--shamefully--am not sure I heard more than one word in ten in any case. All I could think of as we spoke our vows was that Edward was looking at me--truly seeing me again, his whole heart in his dark eyes.
After the wedding breakfast--organised by Mrs. Metcalfe--we drove straight out of town, all the way to the village of Malines. Already the countryside is so different from what it was a few weeks ago. Or rather, it seems to have returned already to a land untouched by the horrors of war: abundant cornfields and verdant meadows, and the people all still rejoicing in Napoleon's downfall. That is the only reminder of the battle--the puppet-shows and ballad singers one hears, all detailing the defeat of the infamous Bonaparte.
Edward and I found the tiny but charming inn at Malines and engaged a room--that was where we spent our wedding night last night.
And that is why any and all things seem possible to me right now, even unto miracles.
Give my love to my brother, and kiss baby James for me--I am longing to see how much he must have grown since I have been away.
And now you, my dearest friend and sister, have the signal honour of receiving the letter on which I first sign my name:
With all my love,
THE END
Thank you for reading Pemberley to Waterloo. Please read on for a preview of Kitty Bennet's Diary, Volume III in the Pride and Prejudice Chronicles.
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Wednesday 20 December 1815
I am going to find my sister Mary a husband. I have decided: I will see Mary wedded to a nice, eligible, and if possible handsome young man within the next year if it kills me.
Which to be honest, and given Mary's past history, seems entirely probable.
It is strange. I would never in a hundred years have thought Mary cared one way or the other about attracting male admirers, much less a husband. I didn't think she cared very much for anything--except proving how very much cleverer and more accomplished she is than anyone else.
But tonight, after we had returned from Lady Dorwich's ball and gone to bed, I woke in the middle of the night to hear Mary crying.
Since we are staying with my aunt and uncle Gardiner in their London home, we are obliged to share a room.
I sat up--certain I must be dreaming, because I can't recall ever having heard Mary cry since she was six years old and I was five, and she fell off the pianoforte bench and cut her head on the coal scuttle.
But she was. She was huddled under the blankets, sobbing softly into her pillow.
I lay quiet, uncertain of what to do. It's not as though Mary and I have ever been especially close, despite the nearness of our ages. If I am being completely honest, sharing a room with her these last weeks has occasionally made me contemplate--well, not actual fratricide. Or whatever the equivalent for sisters is; Latin has never exactly been my strong point.
But I have felt that if I have to spend one more day listening to Mary making weird gargling sounds in her throat first thing at dawn every morning--she read somewhere or other that it strengthens a weak singing voice--I would be tempted to catch several dozen live toads and put them in her bed.
Except that there are no live toads to be had in London in January.
But the whole point of my sharing a room with Mary is that it's a kind of penance. And the unpleasant truth that I've recently discovered about doing penances is that they are practically never the kind of acts that come easily. So I pushed back the covers and got up--despite the cold floorboards and the fact that my feet were bare--and sat down on the edge of Mary's bed.
"Mary? Is something wrong?" I asked.
Mary didn't answer, she only lay absolutely still, the covers pulled over her head. And after a second's pause, she let out the most unconvincing snore I have ever heard--half snort, half suppressed sob.
"Oh, for heaven sakes, Mary, I know you're not asleep," I said. "You wouldn't fool baby Susanna." Baby Susanna being our youngest Gardiner cousin. "You may as well sit up and tell me what the trouble is."
Mary lay without moving a second more--and then she suddenly sat up in an explosion of blankets and sheets and sat glowering at me from under the ruffles of the old-fashioned night cap she always wears.
Mary is only twenty, a year older than I am, but even at night she dresses as though she is practising for the role of elderly maiden aunt.
Mary's eyes were red and puffy-looking, but she lifted her chin. "If you must know, I'm crying because not one single gentleman asked me to dance tonight."
I was taken aback. I have never thought that Mary cared for dancing before. Usually at any entertainment we attend, she does nothing but clutch her sheet music to her chest and hover by the pianoforte. Poised to be the first to jump at the keyboard as soon as any ladies are invited to perform a song.
"I thought you said that in your opinion, dancing was a frivolity suited only to small and meagre minds?" I said.
Which sounds as though I were being spiteful. But I have also discovered that it's extremely wearing to force myself to be sweet all the time.
And it is also quite true that Mary said exactly that; she really does talk that way. Constantly.
Mary sniffed and looked balefully at me. "And so it is. But it would have been nice to at least be asked," she said. She wiped her nose on the sleeve of her nightdress. "I talked to one young man for at least a quarter of an hour during supper. Mr. Porter. He was eating a very large helping of the roast duck, and I told him that modern medical opinion holds that a diet of too many rich meats can lead to gout in later age. I even outlined for him what a scientific paper I read recently gave as a recipe for a healthful diet--brown bread . . . raw onions . . . a great many carrots. But he still did not ask me to dance afterwards."
"Imagine that," I said.
Mary wiped her nose again and glared at me. "I knew you wouldn't understand, Kitty. You had men asking you for dances all night long. And you didn't accept one of them."
That is also true. It's very ironic, really. Since I have sworn off men entirely, I am besieged by invitations at every ball or assembly we attend. Tonight I started telling overly persistent gentlemen that I have a mother in the madhouse, a father in the penitentiary, and feel myself coming down with a touch of bubonic plague. And they only thought I was being charmingly witty; I was still refusing invitations to dance throughout the entire evening.
Apparently the secret to attracting male attention is to cultivate an air of unattainability. If only I had known that a year ago.
Mary doesn't know the full story of why I have sworn off men and dancing. So I suppose her glare was in some way justified. But it didn't last long. Her face crumpled after a moment, and she started to cry again.
"I'm never going to have anyone fall in love with me." She spoke between sobs. "No one will ever write poetry about me. Or try to kiss me. I'll never get married. I'll never have a house and a husband and babies of my own."
I stared at her. Thinking about how it is perfectly possible not to know your own sister at all. I admit the thought of anyone writing poetry about Mary strains even my imagination. A
ctually, it strains my imagination even more to picture Mary accepting a poem written in her honour, without being tempted to write up an answering critique of the meter and rhyme.
And Mary as a mother? The mind--or at least my mind--boggles.
Though I will admit that Mary is very good with baby Susanna. In Susanna's company, she forgets to be serious-minded and full of conceit with her own cleverness. She will even make ridiculous faces to get Susanna to utter one of her fat, delicious baby chuckles. But I had never imagined before tonight that Mary might want a family of her own.
But she is, after all, my sister. And, really, why shouldn't she have a husband and children if she wants them?
Besides, since there is no purpose in attending all the balls and parties of the London Season for myself, I might as well dedicate my energies to seeing that Mary takes some benefit from it all.
Mary fell asleep soon after that last outburst. But I've been lying awake, formulating plans and going over lists of possible young men in my mind--and determining that getting Mary wedded will be my good deed for the New Year.
Do present good deeds make up for past wrong ones? It would be nice to be able to believe it. But I can't imagine that life works that way.
Tuesday 2 January 1815
There are five of us Bennet sisters--which fact always makes strangers sigh and make comments about our poor mother, burdened with the task of getting five daughters married off, without even the benefit of decent dowries for us.
But while we were growing up, it always seemed to me that each of us had our assigned roles in the family. Jane was the oldest, and the most beautiful. Then came Elizabeth--Lizzy--who was always the most charming and witty. And then Mary.
Whom I suppose I can't entirely blame for turning herself into such an appalling blue-stocking, because she spent her entire childhood hearing what a shame it was that she was not as pretty as her older sisters. It's no wonder, really, that she started trying to distinguish herself as the most bookish and intelligent one of us.
Pemberley to Waterloo: Georgiana Darcy's Diary, Volume 2 Page 21