Darcy's Hope at Donwell Abbey, a WW1 Pride & Prejudice Companion

by Ginger Monette

  Elizabeth shifted her focus to a huddle of Red Cross drivers congregated at the end of the platform. Good. It would take them several minutes to unload the stretcher cases destined for the local auxiliary hospital, so she could delay her arrival until the train pulled into the station.

  Glancing down the narrow street for a place to conceal herself, she spotted a postbox. Her heart cinched. She needed to post the letter to Jane.

  She hurried to the receptacle and drew the letter from her carpetbag. Clutching it to her chest, she whispered a prayer, then released it into the slot.

  Moments later, she darted into an alley. With an anxious eye on the road to Pemberley and the other on the station, she waited. When the train’s whistle announced its arrival, Elizabeth scurried across the muddied street and stepped onto the platform just as the locomotive screeched into the station. The cheering families funnelled to the railway carriages whose windows framed waving Tommies. No one took notice of her slipping behind the crowd to buy a ticket. She didn’t care where the train was going, she just needed to be on it.

  With ticket in hand, Elizabeth turned around just as the compartment doors swung open and the local boys poured out in a wave of glee. Children ran to fathers, wives kissed husbands, and mothers hugged sons. Tears misted in her eyes at the moving scene.

  Elizabeth imagined Fitzwilliam stepping off a moment after the others. Standing tall in his reserved manner, he would pause on the platform, silently scanning the crowd for her. And when their eyes locked, that beautiful smile would spread across his face. With her eyes never leaving his, she would go to him, demurely, as was fitting a woman worthy of Pemberley’s master. And then she would be in his arms. Elizabeth closed her eyes, imagining the warmth of his embrace and the sweetness of his lips on hers. A lump rose in her throat. That would never be, for she would not be here to greet him when he arrived.

  Her eyes flew open as two chuckling privates passed by heading for the table of sandwiches already surrounded by their comrades.

  She ducked into the shadows to remain unseen and shifted her gaze to the last two railway carriages where four middle-aged men in their VAD uniforms unloaded the wounded from two khaki-coloured cars painted with a red cross. These were local boys being transferred to the small hospital here. As tragic as their wounds were, at least they were guaranteed a few more months of life before being sent back to the killing fields.

  She turned towards a clattering sound coming from a compartment door at the end of the train. A moment later the rubber tips of two crutches tentatively pointed to the platform and a soldier swung down with a grunt. Alarm rose in Elizabeth as the man wobbled precariously, balancing on his one remaining leg. The left leg of his hospital blues was pinned up at the knee.

  Elizabeth took two steps towards him, then paused as a passing orderly called out, “This isn’t your stop, Sergeant. Wait there and I’ll help you back to the train.”

  “Well, my home is here, and I haven’t seen my wife in nine months.” The unsteady man hobbled on.

  “She can see you tomorrow at the hospital in Manchester.” Annoyance laced the orderly’s voice as he and his partner slid a stretcher into a Red Cross conveyance.

  “I’ll see her today,” the soldier muttered, continuing in his thump and shuffle gait.

  Bright red seeped across the upturned trouser leg. Elizabeth’s heart quickened. With all the blood pressure pounding down on that stump, his stitches had likely split open. If the man didn’t quickly elevate that leg, he could bleed to death right here.

  Without a second thought, Elizabeth rushed over. “Sir, your leg is bleeding. Please, sit down. Let me help you.” He merely quickened his pace.

  “Sir—”

  Planting his crutches on the wet platform, one tip slipped and sent him crashing to the decking. An agonising scream filled the air as he writhed in pain.

  Elizabeth dropped beside him and cupped his cheek in her hand, forcing his focus on her. “You’ll be all right, Sergeant. If you’ll be still, I’ll stop the bleeding.” With a grimacing nod, he calmed.

  “Would someone please get a Sister—or a doctor?” Elizabeth called in a controlled voice as she raised the stump and rolled back the empty trouser leg of her moaning patient. The white bandages covering the wound were soaked with blood. Holding up the shortened leg with one hand, she quickly unwrapped it with the other. Indeed the stitches had split open. Blood pulsed out. She pinched the wound together, then pressed the wadded bandages over the gash.

  “Stella! Stella! I just want to see my Stella,” the sergeant blubbered, pulling at his hair.

  “You’ll see your Stella.” Elizabeth looked up and found a crowd hovering over them. “Please, is there a—”

  “What’s this man doing off the train?” A khaki uniform with a Red Cross armband knelt across from her and took over the bandage wad.

  “I just wanted to see my wife, sir. I just want to see my wife.”

  “If you want to be alive when you see her, you’ll get back on that train to Manchester. Stretcher bearers!” the doctor shouted over his shoulder. “And bring some morphine!”

  The doctor turned to Elizabeth. “That was a handy piece of work Miss—?”

  “Thomas,” she provided over the wailing, restless patient.

  Two aproned men appeared, and Elizabeth stood, then backed away into the shadows as the bearers slid the moaning man onto the stretcher.

  A minute later, the train whistle pierced the air, signalling its departure. Elizabeth kept out of sight as the Tommies drained their cups and snuffed their Woodbines, then tramped back to their compartments. Just as the conductor began closing the doors, she hopped aboard.

  Clutching her bag, she made her way down the narrow aisle. Several seats were occupied by dozing men in khaki, and two women chatted with animated expressions. She removed her soggy coat and slid into a seat near the back where she hoped she’d be inconspicuous.

  As the locomotive chugged out of the station, she sighed and settled into the seat. At least she’d successfully escaped—although she’d certainly made herself visible.... But she didn’t regret helping the poor sergeant. As soon as she got to Manchester, she’d take another train and go somewhere else.

  “...you think they’re spies?”

  Elizabeth’s ears riveted to the two animated women conversing several seats in front of her.

  “Yes!” replied the other. “I’ve always had a suspicion about them. And with a name like Krause you know they must be sympathetic to the German cause.”

  “A German name doesn’t make them German sympathisers any more than an English name guarantees loyalty to the Crown.”

  “Well, I’m not the only one with suspicions of their allegiance. They’ve opened their London town home to families visiting loved ones in the hospital, but the gesture doesn’t fool me. I assure you they won’t be seen in my home....”

  Elizabeth winced and shrank into her seat. It was a sobering reminder that the slightest suspicion of collusion with the enemy was like a guillotine to a reputation. And the allegations against her were based on far more evidence than a German surname! She’d been accused of aiding in prisoner escapes, and her every behaviour suggested her guilt. Even Dr. Cowart apparently had evidence against her. If caught, it would set into motion a succession of events like the tipping of a row of dominoes that didn’t stop until scores of people had been toppled.

  After being arrested, a thorough investigation would be launched against her and her every association—including Fitzwilliam. And an investigation of someone as important as Fitzwilliam would be news. Big news. If convicted, she could be shot. He could be shot. But even if declared innocent, public opinion against them would be ruinous. Fitzwilliam would never be welcome in social circles, merchants might refuse to sell to him, and others might refuse to buy the produce cultivated on his land. His tenants would be shamed, and Georgiana’s prospects for a good marriage would be destroyed. Her mind churned with the disastrous ramif
ications as the train chugged onward.

  The train stopped at each village, and passengers disembarked while others climbed aboard. But it was the same scene every time, families greeting loved ones. And each time her heart knotted a little tighter at the reminder that when her beloved arrived home in two months, she would not be there to greet him.

  Nearing Stockport, she felt the eyes of a lieutenant across the aisle studying her. She shifted on the plush red seat and turned her gaze out of the window. A few moments later she stole a glance in his direction. He was still staring! Panic swept across her. Did he recognise her?

  “Excuse me, miss. Don’t I know you from somewhere? You look so familiar.”

  “Ah, I don’t believe so.” She smiled and turned back to the window.

  “Are you sure?” As the train’s whistle announced the next stop, he snapped his fingers and slid into the seat in front of her. “I’ve got it! You were my nurse in Boulogne—Lieutenant Wickham’s friend. Don’t you remember me? I’m Lieutenant Albert Lindberg from Manchester. I gave you a stuffed poodle on your last morning there.”

  Her pulse pounded. She’d been the VAD nurse in his orthopaedic ward every night for a month. She forced a neutral expression. “Sorry. You must have me confused with someone else. I’ve never been to France.”

  “You look just like her. What was her name?” He pinched his lips and squinted towards the ceiling.

  Elizabeth squirmed, but whispered a prayer of thanks when the train screeched into Stockport station. “If you’ll excuse me, this is my stop.”

  She grabbed her coat and carpetbag then hurried up the aisle while the train was still moving. Once on the station’s platform, she darted through the crowd. She glanced over her shoulder just in time to see the lieutenant surveying the small crowd from the compartment doorway. Fear shot through her, and she ducked behind the depot.

  How was she going to get back on the train? She couldn’t risk being seen crossing the platform. She needed to reach Manchester. It was a large city and would have trains departing for numerous cities, offering her plenty of options. She closed her eyes and drew even breaths to calm herself. Perhaps it didn’t matter. She could just keep riding until she landed someplace she could disappear.

  Landed.... That was it! Why hadn’t she thought of it before? Liverpool wasn’t far, and boats departed for America nearly every day. She wouldn’t be able to join her sisters there, but she could certainly disappear in a place as large as America! Her mind whirred with plans. She dug in her carpetbag, then drew out her reticule and counted out four pounds, three shillings, and a sixpence. Would that be enough to secure her passage?

  The whistle finally sounded, and the train steamed out of the station. Elizabeth crossed the empty platform to the ticket window. “Hello.” She peered in at the balding agent. “When is the next train to Liverpool?”

  “You just missed it, miss. Next train is tomorrow at eleven o’clock. The only other train tonight is the express to London.”

  Tomorrow? Elizabeth stumbled away in a daze. If she lodged overnight, she might not have sufficient funds for passage to America. What was she to do now?

  ~FOUR~

  The next morning—A Belgian convent

  The water in Darcy’s glass shimmered as the reverberations of an exploding shell in the distance faded away. He laid his pen on his desk and sighed. Between the incessant rain and the artillery fire, the convent would be fortunate if the signallers had the communications lines repaired before nightfall.

  The door creaked open and his assistant appeared.

  “Telegram from Colonel Fitzwilliam, sir. It says he’ll be here within the hour if the roads don’t wash out.”

  “So the lines are back up?”

  “Yes, sir. But with them being down since yesterday afternoon, outgoing messages are backed up. Do you have anything urgent?”

  “Not at present. But if I do, I’ll key it myself if I have to.”

  “You know telegraphy, sir?”

  “I’d better. Last year I was stationed at a signalling headquarters three miles from the Front.”

  “Well I’ll be damned, a gentleman who—.” The young man’s face froze. “Pardon me, sir.”

  Darcy smiled. “Just alert Dr. Knightley to expect the colonel.”

  “Yes sir.”

  A gentleman. Darcy huffed. This was hardly the gentleman’s life his father had envisioned for him.

  Darcy crossed the stone floor to the window and stared out. A gusting wind drove sheets of rain diagonally across the convent’s courtyard. The rain had begun falling on his motorcycle ride back from Boulogne four days ago and hadn’t stopped since. But prior to that.... He smiled at his few days with Elizabeth. One shared with her picnicking in a peach orchard, lazing away the afternoon reading poetry and sipping wine, and the other two spent strolling the seaside streets of Boulogne.

  Two taps on the door brought him back to the present.

  “Excuse me, sir. Dr. Knightley just went into surgery. He’ll report here as soon as he’s finished.”

  “Thank you, Edwards.” Darcy returned his gaze out of the window as the door clicked shut.

  Dr. Robert Knightley, a distant cousin on his mother’s side, had accompanied him to The Ritz as part of the undercover operation. Darcy chuckled at Richard’s reason for choosing his relatives for the intelligence assignment: “Because I trust you.” Richard was a good judge of character. And Knightley was a fine man and an excellent leader. He would make a good master of Donwell Abbey one day, in spite of the fact that his Uncle George Knightley resented his being the heir apparent.

  Darcy braced a hand on the window frame and shifted. Funny how things don’t turn out the way we expect. His father would never have envisioned his son as Captain Darcy mucking about on a battlefront—or courting a country girl from Hertfordshire.

  Come home to me, Fitzwilliam, I love you. He closed his eyes as Elizabeth’s parting words flowed over him. As long as he lived, he would never forget those words or their first kiss.... He slid her picture from his breast pocket, jostling the tiny music box beside it. The tinkling melody Let me call you sweetheart flowed from the miniature mechanism. With his thumb and forefinger, he drew it out and cupped it in his palm, listening as he stared at her image. Two months, just two months and then he could hold her again.

  He sighed and snapped the lid shut, drowning the melody. Yes, two months...and a conspiracy plot to unravel between now and then.

  Returning the objects to his pocket, he turned around just as Richard’s hitching gait crescendoed outside his office and the door swung open.

  “Darcy, there’s trouble.” Richard strode in, slamming the door behind him.

  “What is it?”

  “Why didn’t you tell me some upstart Canadian reporter has been poking about?” He threw his cap on the altar table desk.

  “Probably because it seemed an irrelevant detail.”

  “An irrelevant detail?”

  “I heard that a young reporter came while I was gone, but as you know, they were inundated with wounded. And the staff knows better than to oblige the press.”

  “Well, it’s hardly irrelevant now.” His cousin dropped into a chair. “Word has it the whippersnapper is at The Ritz. I suspect he arrived on the heels of your departure. Apparently caught wind of the air raid and escaped prisoners. Thought he would do a little detective work of his own before his countrymen’s medical team took up residence there.”

  “So what did he find?” Darcy crossed to the desk.

  “I was hoping you’d know. But I aim to find out—immediately. The last thing we need is some bloody newspaper headline undermining our investigation.”

  “So...we’ll pay a visit to The Ritz and ask him.”

  Richard shook his head. “Main road is flooded.”

  “We’ll go on horseback then.”

  “Where’s Robert? Does he know anything about this chap?” Richard scanned the room.

  “He’s
in surgery.”

  Richard grunted.

  “Excuse me, Colonel,” Edwards interrupted, “General Pommier on the phone for you, sir.”

  “Ah. This should only take a moment.” Richard pulled himself from the chair and headed for the door.

  The hammering rain drew Darcy back to the window. He thrust his hand into his pocket and fingered the ribbed texture of the medal’s ribbon. A long ride on horseback in a downpour wasn’t what he had in mind for today.

  Darcy’s eyes tracked an ambulance as it pulled to a stop at the edge of the cloister. What misfortune had befallen this load of Tommies? ...I’m so sorry to hear of her misfortune... Darcy released a lungful of air. What misfortune? What did Wickham’s words mean?

  The ambulance driver stepped from the cab, shielding himself from the torrent as he splashed to the rear doors and leaned in. Darcy craned his neck. How was the chap going to unload a stretcher by himself?

  A long sausage-shaped duffle bag slid from the back and landed under the cloister’s protection. Another followed. Darcy chuckled under his breath. Not stretchers, just laundry. Not exactly what he was expecting, but at least they weren’t bodies wrapped in burial blankets. Never know what can happen at the Front. Blast, Wickham! Darcy grunted in frustration, chafing the ribbon between his fingers, then jerked his hand from his pocket when the pin pricked his thumb.

  A pin! He whipped out the medal and examined it. Belgian officers had questioned Elizabeth about some kind of pin given to her by Wickham that they suspected was an intelligence threat. Was this the missing piece of the puzzle?

  He held the Croix de Guerre up to the window and turned it over in his hand. Faint etchings on the back reflected in the dim light. He squinted closer at the tiny inscription. E4T E5T. The combination of letters and numbers registered as vaguely familiar. His brain searched the files of his mind: order numbers, regulation references, map coordinates. Coordinates. What kind of coordinates?

  He raised his gaze out of the window. The ambulance driver hoisted the duffle bag onto his shoulder, and then hurried down the cloister. The long narrow bag bowed in the middle like body over the shoulder of his mate. A bag—a body. Darcy’s blood ran cold.