It was not long before the entire camp had breakfasted and was ready to pack away. Wickham looked about him and was mightily proud of his men. Most of them were untested in the battlefield yet, but, so far, they performed their duties impeccably. Within an hour, they were all packed up and beginning to form the convoy to march onward. Wickham could not help but wonder if the wild boar in their bellies helped to motivate them that morning. He shrugged his shoulders—he preferred to think that his training was responsible for their preparedness. Wickham looked up at the sky as a cold breeze made him shiver. He pulled his cloak tighter around him, surveying the greying sky. That day was looking like it would be in stark contrast to the one before.
“Looks like rain.”
Wickham turned and saw Poynter heading towards him. “Aye, it does, and the wind is getting chillier.”
“Well…” Poynter rubbed his hands together. “…there’s nothing we can do about that. Are all your men ready to leave?” Wickham nodded that they were. “Good. It seems Brook did not sleep all that well last night.” He smirked. “Probably needs a deep feather mattress to rest well each night, eh?”
“Don’t we all?” Wickham laughed.
“Hmm…true. True.” Poynter sighed. “Anyway, it’s put the captain in a rather testy mood this morning. We had better warn the men to be on their best behaviour. Besides, we do not know what we’re heading into as we march closer to enemy lines.”
Wickham looked grim. “I think we will all become a little testy the closer we get to the French.”
“No doubt about it.” Poynter took a deep breath and headed back towards the horses. “We march in fifteen minutes.”
Wickham nodded and looked around him once again. All evidence there was ever a camp here was being systematically eradicated from existence. He was pleased about that. The more they cleaned up, the less likely it was they would be followed. That thought chilled his bones more than the drizzling rain as it started to fall. What if we are being followed? He turned around in a circle and surveyed the forest that surrounded them on all sides. Are there Frenchmen watching our every move right now? He pushed aside such thoughts and marched towards his men as they packed up the last of the tents in one of the small carts. “Pack it all in tightly, men.”
“Aye, sir,” the eldest one said as they all nodded at him, sensible not to salute. “It’s a job to get it all in, sir.”
“Well, they must have gone in at one time, Private.”
“Aye, mayhap, sir. But I reckon they took the best horses and carts with them when they marched out.” His irritation was clearly etched on his face.
“It was kind of them to give us anything at all, Private. We could have been sleeping on the ground and then marching onwards this morning on foot. As it is, we are blessed with horses and carts, not to mention the tents, too.” Wickham nodded at the cart in front of him, which had seen better days. “We should consider ourselves lucky. We march in fifteen minutes.”
“Aye, sir,” they chorused quietly. However, unfortunately for the older private, Wickham was still in earshot when he made his following remark: “Lucky for you, you mean. You slept on a cot, and’ll ride a bloomin’ horse all day. Lucky indeed!”
Wickham chose to ignore the comment for the time being and headed to find his steed. It was true, he was lucky. He certainly did not wish to walk another one hundred yards, let alone march for miles on his still-sore feet. His horse was less of a steed and more of a nag, he saw as he neared it. The private’s words echoed in his head. Yes, the departing army had taken the best of the equipment, but it was theirs to take in the first place. Wickham gripped the saddle and swung up onto the animal. The creature whined a little under his weight—it looked as tired as he felt—still, he was grateful. We all ought to be grateful.
As they began their onward march, led by Captain Brook and Colonel Sullivan through the bitter, driving rain, Wickham kept a sharp watch about him. He could not shake the feeling that they were being watched. He knew it was simple paranoia. If they were indeed being watched, then the enemy would have come upon them whilst they slept and murdered them all. As it was, they were still alive and marching towards their foe for battle. Wickham tried to think on other things, but he was tense, and his training meant his mind was alert.
They passed empty village after empty village, all of them devastated by the ravages of war. The scars of rifle shots and cannon blasts blighted the land around them. Wickham thought it was sad to see and was mightily pleased the fighting was not on British soil. Hardly any village that they passed through was untouched. Many of the houses, shops, and churches lay destroyed from cannon fire. He shivered, pulled his cloak further across his chest, and looked ahead of him. In the distance, he could see they approached a signpost. He wondered what the name of this poor abandoned village was and who used to dwell there. As he drew nearer the post, he saw the arm of the sign with this village’s name on it had been prophetically blown off by the cannons. What a shame! He frowned as he looked closer. To the east, he saw a name he recognised as well. It was the direction they headed, and his stomach knotted tighter with apprehension. As he passed, he looked at the third arm of the signpost. He almost gasped with surprise. He sat stunned in the saddle of his horse as it continued to walk him forward. Is that possible? He frowned. His mind immediately took him back to Scarborough Castle and the conversations he had with Lieutenant Jacques Dubois. Is providence taking a hand in matters? he wondered. He had not thought of the lieutenant once since they set sail from Scarborough, and yet, now here he was passing a sign to the very place the young man had asked him to visit. They were, he knew, marching in the direction of Aurnel, where they were to encamp once more and engage the enemy, but to the east, the sign declared, lay the village of Vincy—Jacques’ sister, Estelle Bernard’s village.
Wickham continued on in stunned silence. A seed of a thought started to germinate in his mind. I am meant to tell Estelle Bernard that her brother is alive. It is part of my destiny. He shook his head. Usually such stuff and nonsense belonged in the realms of Lydia’s conversations, but now he wondered if his wife had not been right all along. The sound of his heart pounded in his ears and he glanced over at Poynter and Turpin riding along ahead of him. He would take the earliest opportunity of speaking to them about going to see Madame Bernard.
Lydia stayed up late with Kitty, giggling and talking. She was so pleased to be with her sister; however, she was not as pleased as she thought she would be about visiting her childhood home. When she arrived, her mother had laid out the red carpet for her and treated her with the utmost respect, due to her illness, but that soon faded. Her mother seemed to grow tired of the constant attention Lydia felt owed to her. Therefore, it pleased her no end to spend the morning with Hill in the nursery.
“I have good news for you, Mrs Wickham.” The old servant grinned and rose from her chair as she entered the room. “It looks like Master Georgie is breathing a little better this morning.”
Lydia reached into the crib and felt George’s cheek with the back of her hand. It felt cooler to the touch and less red. “I think he looks much improved, Hill.” She smiled with relief as she stood up straight.
“Aye, that he does. I’m right glad. It was touch and go in the night, I don’t mind tellin’ you. But he’s a fighter, that one.” Hill beamed down at the sleeping form in the crib. “Oh, it’s a delight to have a boy in the house after so many girls, so it is, Mrs Wickham.”
Lydia smiled. She was still processing the thought that Georgie had fought for his life during the night and she was not with him—she had entirely forgotten him. “Why was I not informed that he travailed so?” she stammered, to her chagrin.
“Oh, Mrs Wickham. You’re only just recovered yourself. You need your sleep, so you do. I would have called for you if you were needed.” Hill reached out and patted her on the arm.
Lydia’s throat constricted. “Will he be all right now?” she asked in a whisper.
“Aye, I think so. The worst is past, and to be entirely honest with you, Mrs Wickham, I’ve seen babes suffer more and still come through fine.” She gazed down at the crib, lost in thought. “It’s a funny ole thing, grippe. It can be mild as the common cold and carry you off, or as hard as the worst fever known to man and you can still beat it.” She looked back up at Lydia. “But there you are now. He seems to be fine, and I know more about the grippe than most do. If I say he’s all right, then the young master’s all right.” She smiled.
Lydia felt reassured and sighed with relief. “I would still like to consult with Dr Noakes all the same.”
Hill nodded. “Aye, I thought you might. He’ll be along shortly. You can wait up here with me if you like.”
Lydia said that she would like that and sat down on the old battered wooden toy box against the wall. She remembered so many years of being here as a child herself. She was pleased Georgie would be well again. She did not like to think what Wickham would say if they lost their son to grippe. As she sat and watched the old woman cooing and fussing over the babe, Lydia felt as though a weight was lifted from her shoulders. She frowned and wondered how she could be so concerned for her son’s health one moment, and then utterly forget him the next. She shrugged. Mayhap that is my way of coping with the upset of seeing so unwell.
Lydia kept well clear out of the doctor’s way when he shortly arrived. She did not like him all that well, and as she stood in the corner of the nursery, she eyed him with disdain. He was one of those old-fashioned types that still wore a powdered wig, and she frowned at it. Her mother had told her so many stories of lice in wigs that she detested them. She knew she ought to be grateful to the man; after all, it was his medicines and his tinctures—along with his ministrations, and those of Hill—that had brought the lad through his illness. However, try as she might, she could not bring herself to like him—there was simply something about him which she could not warm to—something more than the wig.
Lydia had found, on many occasions, that there were people that she simply could not take to. Usually, she would avoid them. If she had no choice but to be in the same room as them, then she had become adept in the art of ignoring such dislikeable characters as they were to her. The fact remained, however, that she could not ignore Dr Noakes. Georgie needed him—they all needed him, and as she had so recently been reminded, she had been in great need of his medical attentions whilst she, too, lay suffering under the fever of grippe.
She thought back over the long and arduous journey from Scarborough to Hertfordshire and remembered Tess, her maid. She wondered how she was doing below stairs, in a house that was unfamiliar to her and amongst other servants who were strangers to her. Lydia felt a pang of guilt. Not only had she so recently forgotten about her ailing son, but she also had forgotten about her maid. She felt ashamed. As they had travelled south and the rain had set in, it was Tess who had taken care of both Lydia and Georgie. It was Tess who had the presence of mind to alert the servants at Netherfield as to their condition. Because of her actions, Dr Noakes was called for and was already waiting when Lydia, young Georgie, and the rest of their travelling party arrived at Longbourn. Tess deserved better attention from her mistress. She deserved her unending gratitude. What she had received instead was Lydia’s forgetfulness, ingratitude, and disrespect. Lydia felt chastened. Tess may only be a servant, but Lydia was sensible of the fact that she owed the young girl her life. She looked down at her feet with embarrassment. She decided she would tell Hill she wanted Tess to attend her again. Then she could thank her personally.
Dr Noakes addressed her and awoke her from her reverie. “I said, the lad seems to be doing well, Mrs Wickham.” He looked at her over the rim of his glasses, which perched precariously on the end of his nose in a manner that Lydia thought was conceitedly arrogant.
Nevertheless, Lydia smiled sweetly. “Thank you, Dr Noakes. I am extremely relieved to hear it.”
The doctor returned her smile and Lydia wished he had not—she found his yellowing teeth disturbing. “I expect the tyke to make a full recovery within the next few days.” He turned back to the crib. “He’ll be weak, no doubt, for a while, but in no time at all he’ll be back to his usual self, I am happy to say.”
Again, Lydia sighed with relief. Her son would live, and Wickham would have nothing with which to rebuke her. “Thank you, Doctor. You have been most helpful and kind.” Lydia’s smile did not reach her eyes. “Is there anything I can get for you before you leave?” She hoped he would say no and leave immediately.
“Well, I wouldn’t mind a glass of that excellent sherry you gave me last night, Mrs Hill,” he said, turning to the servant.
Lydia raised her eyebrows. “Oh? Sherry?”
Hill had the grace to look embarrassed. “Erm…we just, you know, keep it below stairs for medicinal reasons mainly, and for when someone like the doctor here comes calling.”
Lydia wondered if her father knew that housekeeping money was spent on sherry for the servants and other tradespeople. “Right,” she said curtly, curtseying to the doctor. “Good day to you, Dr Noakes.” She turned on her heel and departed the room directly, almost skipping down the stairs to her bedroom. Georgie is well, she repeated in her head.
She sat at the dressing table and checked her hair. It looked good, although she was loathe to admit, her face still looked plump from being with child. “Oh,” she sighed, “when will I lose this infernal fat and be my beautiful self again?” She sat and pondered her reflection in the mirror for a while before looking at the clock and realising it was time for morning tea. She knew her mother would expect her, and would like to hear the good news about Georgie.
Lydia walked calmly down the stairs to the drawing room and entered quietly. Her mother was there with Mary, Lydia’s oldest unmarried sister. “I have wonderful news, Mama,” she declared as she seated herself on the settee.
Mrs Bennet looked up from fussing with the hem of her sleeve. “Oh, do tell! Lord knows we could use some good news around here.”
Lydia grinned. “Dr Noakes has just been to see Georgie.”
Mrs Bennet’s eyes lit up and she shuffled to the edge of her seat. “And? And?”
“And Georgie is through the worst and will make a full recovery!” Lydia clapped her hands together with joy.
“Oh, Lydia! That news brings such joy to my heart and soothes my poor nerves.” She waved her hands delightedly. “I do not know if I could have borne another moment of worry over my dear grandson.” Mrs Bennet dabbed at the corners of her eyes with her handkerchief.
“I know what you mean, Mama. I was beside myself,” Lydia replied, putting her hand to her chest.
Mary looked up from her book, puzzled. “Yet neither of you stood vigil over the child,” she muttered.
“Oh, shush, Mary!” Mrs Bennet bawled at her. “Nobody asked for your opinion. And…” She turned in her chair to face the offending daughter. “…for your information, a mother and grandmother always worry about their offspring—vigil or no vigil.” She nodded at Lydia.
“Indeed.” Lydia scowled at Mary, who shook her head and returned to her reading.
“What would she know, anyway?” Mrs Bennet continued to moan.
“Precisely, Mama. Until Mary is in a similar situation herself, she cannot understand how we feel. I languished at night over my darling boy,” Lydia lied.
Mrs Bennet waved her hand. “Yes, yes I’m sure you did, child. But I want to know if Kitty told you any more about Maria Lucas’ wedding.” Her eyes bulged in anticipation of juicy gossip.
Lydia opened her mouth in astonishment. It seemed the subject of her son’s health was finished, and it was time to move to another one. For a moment, Lydia was insulted and did not know what to say, but under the stare her mother was giving her, she rallied and did her best to recall everything Kitty mentioned, the previous night, on the subject of Maria Lucas’ wedding. Her mother was like a hound on the scent of a rabbit. Once she had a sniff of gossip, s
he would hunt it down until she had it between her teeth and had squeezed every last bit of information out of it. Lydia’s discourse was not sufficient enough for Mrs Bennet, who asked question after question until she exhausted her daughter.
Lydia’s eyes moved back and forth between her mother and the mahogany clock on the mantelpiece. She watched as time marched on and prayed that soon, her mother would stop questioning her and call for tea. Still, though, Mrs Bennet continued on. When she realised that she would get no more information from Lydia, she turned her attention instead to talking about Kitty and Mary, and how she would ever get them both married. This was the subject, it seemed, that Mrs Bennet could talk on for hours on end, and Lydia leant back on the settee and stifled yawn with the back of her hand. Occasionally she looked over at her sister Mary and saw her shaking her head from time to time. Mary was obviously listening in to the conversation, interested to know what would become of her—her book no longer holding her attention.
Lydia always grew bored easily when she was not the centre of attention or directly involved in any conversation. Therefore, she was uninterested in hearing about Mary and Kitty’s marriage prospects, in hearing about Uncle Phillips’ business, and about who was doing what, when, and where in Meryton. She closed her eyes and sighed as her mother began lamenting the lack of entertainment at this time of the year whilst their neighbours took their summer journeys.
Kitty, she discovered earlier, had departed for Meryton that morning to be of assistance to their aunt Phillips there, and although Mary was present in the room, she may as well not have been. Mary never had conversation stimulating enough for Lydia, and she found her quite tiresome. She had barely spoken one word to her since her arrival, other than to give misaimed and ill-timed advice, and that irritated Lydia, who stared grumpily at her sister whilst her mother’s bemoaning washed over her, and only now occasionally heard what Mrs Bennet said.
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