“Or could it be…”
Wickham had his back to the capitaine now. He closed his eyes and stuck out his jaw in irritation.
“… zat you are—’ow you say—out of sorts, because you ’ave to fight Napoléon now? C’est vrai, non?”
Wickham took in a deep breath through his nose to calm his nerves and to prevent himself from turning round and snapping at the insolent fool. He turned slowly to face the capitaine, aware that the whole room was silent and that every man watched him and Capitaine Lefebvre. He spoke slowly and measuredly. “I can assure you, the thought of fighting against the dictator Napoléon’s army does not, in any way, shape, or form, put me out of sorts.”
Again, the Frenchman laughed at him. “Oh!” He clapped his hands with mirth. “Lieutenant Wickham, it is rude to lie.”
“It is no lie. I relish the thought of battle against the tyrant,” Wickham spat, and the two men locked eyes. The French capitaine’s face grew red with fury, but Wickham stood his ground.
Poynter put his hand on Wickham’s shoulder. “Come on, we’ll sit over here.” He forcefully pulled Wickham towards the back wall, where another table was set up with a backgammon board upon it. Wickham reluctantly allowed himself to be led in that direction.
As they turned their backs on the French capitaine, they heard him spit on the floor. “Arrogant English dogs, they will soon learn the might of our army,” he muttered.
“Ignore him,” Poynter’s voice rasped in Wickham’s ear. “The man is a fool.”
“Hmm…” Turpin joined mockingly. “If the capitaine’s army is so mighty, then why was he captured and subsequently held prisoner here?”
Poynter and Turpin began to play. Wickham remained standing with his back towards the capitaine. Slowly, the French prisoners went back to the activities, and one or two of them pulled chairs towards the backgammon table to watch the game. Once his anger had cooled a little, Wickham turned to look around the room for Jacques. As usual, he sat in front of the fire. However, in order for Wickham to join Jacques, he would have to pass Capitaine Lefebvre once again. He was reluctant to do so, but dearly wished to hear more of Jacques’ story. He turned and walked around the back of the long dining table, so he was as far away from the capitaine as possible, and made his way back down the room towards the fireplace. He stood by the spare chair and looked down at Jacques.
“Lieutenant, may I join you?”
Instantly, Jacques snapped out of his reverie, looked up at Wickham, and smiled in recognition. “Good afternoon, Lieutenant Wickham. It is pleasant to see you again. Yes, you may join me.”
Wickham sat down in the hard wooden chair and smiled at the man. “I take it you are well.”
The young Frenchman nodded. “As well as can be expected, and you?”
Wickham sighed and nodded behind him towards the capitaine. “You mean, apart from him?”
Jacques nodded and smiled weakly. “Yes, apart from him.”
“All is well. My wife departed this morning for her home country. She is to stay with her parents, as I believe I told you, until I return from war.”
Again, Jacques nodded. “She’s a fortunate woman to have family with whom she can stay.”
“Yes, indeed she is.”
“I pray, Lieutenant Wickham, that you are not long separated from your wife, and that you soon return to her side.”
Wickham smiled and inclined his head. “I thank you, although I fear this war may drag on and keep us apart.”
“Sadly, it is, as we say, c’est la vie.”
Wickham nodded. “I am afraid I have been told that there will not be so many officers once we have gone.”
Jacques frowned. “Gone?”
“I assumed you knew.” He pointed his thumb back towards the capitaine.
Jacques looked over Wickham’s shoulder towards the capitaine and gasped. “Oh.”
“You mean, you did not know?”
“What is there to know?” Jacques smiled.
Wickham chuckled and looked down at the fire. “Ah, it appears you got me.” He shook his head. “Yes, our departure is imminent. Forgive me, though, if I do not tell you when, exactly.”
Jacques held up his hand. “There is nothing to forgive, my friend. I wish you safe and well.”
Wickham was surprised to hear such a thing from an enemy prisoner. “That is very generous of you.”
The man pulled a face and shook his head. “Non. I do not believe so. I joined the army to have a regular and reliable occupation, not out of patriotism, Lieutenant Wickham.”
“A lot of men do.”
“My allegiance, it may shock you to learn, does not entirely lie with La République.”
Now Wickham was intrigued. “Truly?”
Jacques looked him in the eye and sniggered. “Yes, my friend, are you shocked?”
“Not shocked, exactly; more surprised.”
“I can imagine.” He nodded. “It is not very often that you meet a prisoner of war, especially a French prisoner of war, who would admit to such a thing.”
“I admit to being intrigued. If you would but confide in me, I would be honoured to learn your story.”
Jacques turned and stared sadly into the fire. “My story, as you call it, would not earn me any friends amongst my comrades. In fact, it would likely get me shot, or murdered in my cell.”
Wickham resisted the temptation to lean forward in his chair. The last thing he wanted was to draw attention to the two of them conversing so quietly and conspiratorially by the fire. “What do you mean?” He lowered his voice.
“I am not who you think I am.”
Wickham could not hide the shock on his face.
Jacques smiled. “I see I have surprised you yet again. Dubois is not my original family name. It is merely a common name my uncle chose.” He looked back into the fire, and when he continued speaking, his voice was little more than a whisper. “When I was a little child, my sister and I were taken in the dead of the night from our house, a chateau,” he said meaningfully, “by our uncle—our mother’s brother—and taken from the region. You see, my father was what we call, noblesse.”
“Nobility?” Wickham breathed.
“Oui. Our mother was from Austria, as was the queen, and our uncle intended to take as there to keep us safe. All I know was that my father owned a lot of land. I did not know why the people were angry, and I did not understand at all why we were taken from our home. We travelled for what seemed like an eternity, and eventually, we teamed up with a group of gypsies travelling in the forest. They were the ones who named me Jacques. They also suggested, once they heard our story from my uncle, that we should be named Dubois—that means ‘of the forest’.” He smiled. “My sister, Estelle, and I thought it was fun. We thought it was a game. Jacques and Estelle Dubois. Two children living in the forest with gypsies—of course we thought it was fun.” He closed his eyes, looking worn, and leant his head back against the hard wooden chair. “It was not until a year later, when we seemed almost a part of the group of travelling gypsies, that we learnt the fate of our parents.”
Wickham’s stomach tightened. He feared he knew what the young man was about to say.
“My grandfather was given the chateau we were born in as a gift from the King for all the work he had done. I still, to this day, do not know what that work was. My father was born in the chateau, and my parents were married in the local church. Estelle and I also were born there. As I said, I did not know what was happening outside of the walls. I did not understand the anger that gripped our homeland, and the violence that was sweeping France.” He gripped the arms of the chair and Wickham watched him swallow hard. He knew the young Frenchman was fighting his emotions. “My dear Mère and Père were murdered by the guillotine.”
The young man fell silent, and Wickham did not have the heart to speak. For some time, they sat in silence until Jacques spoke again. “I am sorry, my friend. I did not mean to be so miserable.”
“It i
s I who should apologise. I am the one who wanted to know your story. Now, I’m very sad to learn it, and I’m very sad for you and your sister.”
“Thank you.” Jacques smiled weakly. “You can imagine now, I’m sure, how much my sister, Estelle, and her little girl, Hélène, mean to me.”
Wickham nodded. “Yes, I can indeed.”
Jacques looked abruptly at Wickham and sharply breathed in and leant forward. “Would you? No, it is too much to ask. Too great a risk.”
“What is it?” Wickham frowned.
“I do not know how to say.” He looked troubled. He sat back again. “Surely it would get you into trouble.”
Wickham smirked. He was always tempted by something that was a little dangerous, a little risky. “Mayhap I can be the judge of that.”
Weakly, Jacques smiled at him. “I like you, Lieutenant Wickham. I like you very much indeed.”
“I’m glad to hear it.” Wickham chortled. “Now, what is this risky, dangerous little idea of yours?”
The young man shifted in his chair, licked his lips, looked around to be doubly sure they were not overheard, then smiled and told Wickham what was on his mind.
Lydia slept for the next few hours and only awoke as the carriage pulled to a stop outside the White Hart Inn in Bridlington. She stretched, yawned, and exclaimed, “Oh, are we in Hull already?”
“I don’t rightly know where we are, ma’am.”
The manservant appeared at the door and opened it for Lydia to climb out. Grateful for the chance to move, she immediately descended the carriage. “Where is this place?”
“This is Bridlington, Mrs Wickham.”
“Bridlington?” She looked puzzled.
“Aye, ma’am. We’ve been travelling for five hours now, and I thought you might be getting hungry.”
Lydia nodded. Now that she had woken up, she was indeed hungry. “Yes, quite. I will help Tess with the baby; go on ahead of us inside and tell the innkeeper what we will need.”
The manservant hesitated. “But the horses, ma’am. They need tending to.”
“Hang the horses! Do as I say.” Lydia turned her back on the man to help Tess dismount. She did not see the man’s disgruntled expression, or him shaking his head as he marched off inside the inn. “Now, then, we shall have such a good feast. I am famished, and I’m sure you are, too,” she said to the girl as she stepped down onto the street. “Let us give the man a moment or two inside, and then we can simply go on in and all will be ready.” Lydia noticed there were men sitting outside the inn drinking flagons of ale. She shook her head and put her nose in the air. “Drinking in public at this time in the afternoon,” she grumbled to Tess. “How disgraceful!” The men were staring at her. For all her affectation of being disgusted with such behaviour, Lydia actually enjoyed the attention. She liked it when people took notice of her. She enjoyed the sensation of being the centre of attention, always.
Footsteps behind her made her turn around and she saw that her father’s manservant had returned. “He says that he can’t do anything hot at this time of the day. But he’s got cold, cooked meats and salad, and even some desserts, ma’am,” he said and moved towards his horses.
“Then that will have to suffice,” Lydia replied archly and led Tess into the inn.
Inside, the inn was dingy and dark. The entire place was ancient, she thought, and wood panelled from the time of the Tudors, she surmised. Lydia turned her nose up at it and thought it in great need of improvement. The innkeeper bowed as she entered the bar. “This way, if you please, ma’am.” He indicated that she should follow him through a door in the back of the bar. “I’ve put you and your maid servant in this back room. It gets the sun in the afternoon, and it looks out onto our little courtyard. It’s not very pretty, but it’s the best I’ve got.”
Lydia cared not onto what the windows looked out. At that moment, all that was on her mind was her stomach. As she entered the room with Tess in tow, she saw the man indeed had done himself proud. The table was laid out with all kinds of meats, cheeses, breads, pastries, and salads. There was enough there to feed the hunger of four grown men. Lydia resisted the urge to rush forward and grab one of the pies. “Thank you. Yes, this will do nicely.” She nodded at the innkeeper.
He bowed once again. “Shall I fetch you wine?”
“Yes.” She smiled. We will need plenty of wine to wash all this down with.
With another bow, the man departed and Lydia pulled out the nearest chair and sat down on it. “Lord! I’m starving!” Tess giggled but remained standing. “Sit, sit!” Lydia commanded, with her mouth full of meat pie. Tess did as her mistress told her to, and together they sat in silence whilst they ate from the marvellous spread before them.
Within a few minutes, the manservant arrived and sat down next to Tess and let out a sigh. “Ah, that’s the horses taken care of. I must say, this is a feast for the eyes as well as the belly.”
Lydia was incensed by his behaviour. “What on earth do you think you are doing?”
The man looked up at her, puzzled. “Having some lunch, ma’am.”
“Not with us, you are not!” Lydia could not believe the gall of the man, to sit there with his mistress and expect to eat at the same table.
“But I thought—”
“I do not care what you thought. You will not eat with us. Take what you want and leave.” Lydia was so angry, her whole face was red. She clutched her butter knife so hard in her right hand that it dug into the skin of her palm. The man stared, open-mouthed, at her. “Go on, and be quick about it.”
The man, whose face was as red as Lydia’s—out of shame picked up a couple of pies, some meat, and bread and departed, mumbling under his breath and with a sideways furious look at Lydia.
Lydia watched him retreat, her lips thin with anger. “How dare he!” She looked at Tess for confirmation that the man was indeed rude and badly behaved, but she found none. Tess looked down at her plate and refused to look up again. It took a few moments for Lydia to regain her composure, but eventually, she returned to her plate full of food. She spoke at length to Tess about how a servant ought to know their rightful place and barely noticed how uncomfortable this made the young girl, who was seated at the table, eating with her mistress, when the Bennets’ manservant was not allowed to. Lydia prattled on, oblivious to the girl’s feelings.
When they had finished the meal, they took a moment to attend to their toilette and then made their way back through the bar, where Lydia instructed Tess to pay the innkeeper. Out again into the street, Lydia waited outside the carriage for Tess to return. She did not once look over to where the manservant sat with the other men outside and ate his luncheon. Therefore, she missed the fiery darts from his eyes every time he looked in her direction.
When Tess had paid the innkeeper and joined her mistress outside the carriage, Lydia then turned to where the manservant was finishing his lunch. “We are ready to depart now.”
The man said nothing, but merely lifted up the remnant of his bread roll, indicating that he had not finished his luncheon. The other men around him laughed mockingly at Lydia.
She could feel her anger rising. “You may finish that once we are on our way.”
The men looked from the manservant to Lydia and back again, many of them sing-songing, “Ooh.”
Lydia did not know what to do. She had never been in such situation. She looked at Tess, who immediately looked down at the ground as though she found the cobbled street to be vastly fascinating. “Now, if you please.”
Fortunately for Lydia, the manservant had taken his last bite of the bread roll. Slowly, he stood up, dusted off his hands, and brushed the crumbs from the front of his clothes, all the while not breaking eye contact with her. He leant forward, picked up a jug of ale, and tipped the contents down the back of his throat. “Ahh!” he said, and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Now, I am ready.” He sauntered up to the carriage, still maintaining eye contact with Lydia, who squirmed unc
omfortably under his glare, and held the door open for her.
Lydia, embarrassed more than she ever had in her entire life, climbed into the carriage and humbly muttered, “Thank you.”
The Bennets’ manservant shut the door behind her much more forcibly than was necessary, grunted an almost incomprehensible response—Lydia caught a little of it, ‘airs and graces,’ and ‘ain’t a lady at all’—and then he climbed up to the driver’s seat on top.
Inside the carriage, Lydia was subdued. She did not speak to Tess, and took Georgie without comment or looking at her when he started to grumble and cry to be fed. She was embarrassed, and would speak to her father about his manservant’s insolence when they finally arrived in Hertfordshire. She looked out of the window as they pulled away and glanced at the town clock as they passed. It was just past four o’clock in the afternoon. She knew there was no possible way they would make it as far as Kingson-Upon-Hull that day. Whilst Georgie suckled at her breast, she racked her brains to think of a suitable place to stay overnight. If they travelled along the coast road, it would be another five hours before they could reach Hornsea. She knew it was a fashionable place for people to visit for health reasons; she had even heard tell that women often did a little sea bathing there. So she determined that they would have to spend the night in Hornsea. They would not arrive there, she calculated, until approximately nine o’clock that night. They would be tired, and sore from travelling all day in the carriage. However, one problem remained. She did not wish to lean out of the carriage and speak with the manservant driving. Therefore, she asked Tess to do it for her.
The girl looked terrified at the thought of leaning out of the carriage window. Nevertheless, upon being pressed, she did as she was told. Lydia did not understand what the man said in response, but the tone did not sound polite at all. She looked at Tess as the girl sat back down in her place. “Well?”
“He said yes, ma’am.”
Lydia knew full well the man had said much, much more than that. However, Lydia did not push the girl for more details. She settled back into the seat and looked down at her nursing child.
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