Each successive disembarkation featured the same performance to an ever-increasing crowd of cheering onlookers. Always first to come ashore were the officers, beplumed and besworded, taking each step down the gangplank as if it was the centre aisle at St. James. Upon the heels of that grandiloquent show was a substantially more rambunctious, but no less self-satisfied, mob of enlisted men, the two factions united within the complacency of enjoying their glory from the exceedingly fine vantage of good health.
It was only with the subsequent arrival of privateers did the true cost of victory unfold, and this tale was told as much from who did not put ashore as who did. For upon those creaking ships were thousands of the ambulatory amongst the wounded, their number only suggesting the men left in Belgium and France who were not. By then, there was neither music nor cheers to greet these less revered veterans, not that their wounds diminished their heroism, quite the contrary. It was simply a matter of aesthetics. Mangled men were not pretty. And as there was quite a troupe of returning soldiers who were, it was they who were called upon to personify triumph to the masses.
If the vast preponderance of citizens were satisfied by handsome pomp, there were many who were not. A largely tattered legion of wives and children stood yet upon the pier in vigilant hope of seeing a loved one, hobbling but alive, disgorged from the bowels of some straggling ship. With each passing day, then week, however, even these ignoble landings gradually dwindled. Those yet about who held out hope began to believe themselves forsaken. Amongst these forlorn few, Juliette Clisson stood quite apart.
It began as a simple act of kindness, but had since eclipsed pilgrimage and turned into an outright crusade.
As Juliette knew well, there was but one way from France to England and that was by way of the sea. By foregone assumption, it could be surmised that Mr. Darcy and party would return from the continent by way of London. Hence, rationalising that his wife’s condition rendered such a vigil impossible for her, Juliette set about upon a daily campaign to the filthy, bustling dockside to await his arrival herself.
Having always quite diligently avoided any thought of whom Darcy had married, it had been a contradiction of emotions for Juliette when she finally met Elizabeth. Unable to ascertain from her long buried sentiments which she hoped for most—to find her unworthy or worthy—Juliette eventually made a conscious choice toward charity. To feel otherwise would be an abomination upon her own circumstance, and she refused to begrudge any woman such leverage. Hence, she would feel nothing but happiness for Darcy that his distinction was maintained in the woman with whom he had fallen in love. For even Juliette had to acknowledge it was quite remarkable for a woman of Elizabeth Darcy’s station to meet with her in public. But for her to travel all the way from Pemberley to London in her exceedingly delicate condition…to do so was more than remarkable. It was quite astonishing.
With belated abashment, Juliette admitted to herself that she had quite maliciously put every obstacle in her way. Every humiliation. To no avail. Mrs. Darcy refused to be baited. A lady in the truest sense of that word.
Bloody hell.
No, Juliette reprimanded herself. It was as she had hoped. He deserved someone who loved him as had she. Someone honourable. Courageous. Kind. That this lady happened to be exceedingly pretty, was not, however, a particular comfort. A lady of station with such impressive probity could at least have the good graces to be plain. To have Darcy, integrity, and beauty was indefensible. The only deprivation incurred was the lack of children. Obviously, even that was remedied. The indignation at such incongruity of riches was enough to vex the hardiest of souls.
As Juliette was determined that no indefatigable fettles would eclipse her own, she set about to prove just that by naming herself watchkeeper over Elizabeth. And, as Juliette believed it highly likely that, however honourable, Mrs. Darcy would not fully appreciate patronage from her, these auspices were offered in silence. Each day Juliette came to the wharf to stand in Elizabeth’s fecund stead, and every other week, she sent a discreet emissary to Derbyshire to learn if Mrs. Darcy had either delivered or had word from her husband. Upon the most recent reconnaissance, Juliette was informed that the family had gathered at Hertfordshire to grieve the death of Mr. Bennet.
Seldom was a death a boon, and unquestionably, Juliette did not wish Mr. Bennet ill-tidings. But his passing was out of her hands, thus she was free to see some good came of it, if only a small convenience to herself. For to give Darcy that message would be excuse enough to bring her to meet him at the pier.
She was much in want of justification. For after a week of coming to the wharves, it occurred to Juliette how odd it would appear to Darcy for her to be there to greet him (she thought he might not understand her self-proclaimed conservatorship of his family). Hence, every day as she alternately sat in her carriage and traversed the length of the wharf (with unladylike, long strides that betrayed her anxiety), she practised excuses for being there. All sounded quite flimsy until the recent news of his father-in-law’s untimely death.
If she knew to conjure an excuse to present to Darcy for her presence, she did not bother to lie to herself. It was a silly folly. If she truly wanted to help, she could well afford to send a servant to stand upon the shore and watch for Darcy and his party. Truth was, she was so very anxious for his safety, she was drawn to the ships like a rat from Hameln. However honest Juliette was with herself, she did not investigate the contradiction of pursuit that was Darcy safe in England, he would be safe with his wife. After finding him well, there would be ample time for her to re-accustom herself to offering him no special regard. So, stand she did.
The furtive, hooded cloak she first wore was discarded, hot as it was. For she immediately saw there was no need for incognita. The dozen or so other women yet attending the dock were no more interested in her than she was in them. Upon occasion, in the monotony before the excitement of anticipating who would put ashore, Juliette would allow herself a little flight of fancy, imagining she was a wife or sweetheart not unlike the others who stood there with her. But she knew it was a frivolity to submit to such a capricious vagary. Her situation, of course, was not as the others.
It was a substantial vexation to her to know she would have to traverse the petard-strewn ground betwixt herself and disaffection for Darcy once again. Had she not had the poor timing to be at Roux’s when Darcy passed through, she could have avoided a great deal of emotional bother. She believed, however, being able to see him once more was well worth the labourious duty of again purging him from her mind.
It had been nearly a half dozen years since she had last seen him upon the street in front of Harcourt. She remembered the day with unseemly clarity. It had been breezy; her skirt had whipped about. She was trying to contain it when she recognised him approaching, thus she had only a little time to pretend they were unacquainted before he passed. Even with his wife upon his arm, he had touched the brim of his hat in discreet acknowledgement to her. One would have thought that having a gentleman of his stature greet her in public as he had might have been a small victory. But it had not. He had made that gesture in the company of his wife.
It was at that moment Juliette knew that he had told her of their connexion.
It had been easier to accept no longer seeing him if she believed his absence was a matter of honour and at some personal sacrifice. She doubted quite seriously that he felt the need to unkennel his conscience of the indiscretion of his past. Thus, such a confidence shared with his wife revealed a marriage of more intimate regard than Juliette would have liked to have understood.
That day she renewed her resolve to forget him and had believed that endeavour successful. But when she saw him enter Roux’s dining-room, she realised how very unprosperous her efforts had been. She had been flustered into a fit of nerves unlike any she recollected (save for that nasty guillotine incident). It was quite probable she visibly flushed and her only consolation was that he did not see her do it. For his reserve demanded that h
e acknowledge his introduction with no more than a cursory nod to his dinner companions.
Gathering all the aplomb her considerable experience granted her, she gave no further evidence of her disconcertion than her colour and continued to converse to her companion. However, when she thought herself unobserved she sneaked a few glances toward Darcy. It was the first time she had witnessed his behaviour amongst society. As she would have guessed, he sat very straight and was quite solemn. It appeared time had altered him a very little, age thickening his lean body ever so slightly. Weariness, however, was etched upon his countenance and that incited a pang within Juliette that she would just as soon not have felt.
Continuing to ignore his presence, she listened as murmurings at her end of the table distinguished him, not only an aristocrat, but some sort of English diplomat as well. If, indeed, he was a government official, she thought that would be an odd turn of events for a man known for his taciturnity. But, she reasoned, one must never presume another’s inclinations regardless how lengthy or intimate the connexion. For as aloof as she knew him to be, it was with outright astonishment that she had listened to the telling of that rage that had moved him to manslaughter.
That long past astoundment was well-nigh bested when he walked over to her in the drawing room that evening. Confoundment was something of which she had little experience. That night at Roux’s was a series of disconcertions for Juliette, not the least of which occurred when Darcy bid her contact his wife.
It was apparent his reason for being in France was grave, and nonplussed as she was, for the first time her discretion failed her. She did not think to ask him if his business was governmental. That would have given her a source of small talk rather than remarking upon his company as she had. One might suggest with whom Darcy conversed, tarried, or slept was none of her business. By happy chance, he did not appear to understand that when a woman remarks upon a flirt, it is often because the coquette has trespassed (and Juliette had not spoken in defence of his wife).
Without hesitation she had agreed to pass on his letter, thereupon abandoning all pretence of disinterest, and watched him keenly the rest of the evening. Spirits being de rigeur in most bagnio assignations notwithstanding, in all the years she had known Darcy, she had never seen him have more than a single glass of sherry. She thought it unlikely that a man of his regulation would find drink a regular comfort, thus watched uneasily as he downed at least a carafe of wine before he retired.
It was that aberration that bade Juliette go to him that night in Lille, for something was clearly amiss. At the time, she was quite certain there was no cunning in her resolution. She had merely wanted to be able to talk to him more openly about what brought him there. Allow him to unburden himself. She knew unconditionally, however, that if he needed more than conversational consolation, she would happily supply it.
His door, however, opened so precipitously just as she stepped out of her own, it gave her a start. She very nearly fled back to her room, but held her ground by reason of what could only be described as prying. His arm was all she saw of him, but it told her a great deal. For it strongly encouraged a previous visitor to take leave. Thrust unceremoniously into the light of the corridor, the aforementioned visitor was revealed to be none other than Celeste Roux. A frightfully unhappy Celeste Roux, who announced this by stomping angrily away. Juliette duly noted that if Darcy chose feminine company, it was not in the manner of a virgin, however pretty and however anxious.
Feeling more than a little haughty that Darcy had rejected Mademoiselle Roux’s company, Juliette almost took a step in the direction of his now soundly shut door. But she stopped. Thinking more rationally, she knew was he interested in her company, he would seek her. If not, she would find herself just as firmly in the corridor as Celeste. That rejection was not one she was inclined to incur.
She would leave it at that. And did. She closed her door that night in Lille, better prepared to miss an opportunity than obtain a disappointment. The next morning a servant brought a letter in his pen and directed to his wife. It did not bother her conscience to ponder opening it, nor salve it when she chose to not. However, she did decide to deliver it in person.
Regrettably, as those of her party walked up the gangplank to board their ship for England, women’s purses were expropriated. (It was a considerable affront, one she would report to the captain, upon whose aegis she was allowed aboard.) Yet of the belief that Darcy was a British envoy, Juliette dared not have his letter confiscated. She discreetly removed it, tore it into tiny pieces and watched them float down to the water. She wished then she had read his letter to his wife, and wished it more when she talked to Elizabeth. At the very least she might have uncovered what had transpired in France with his sister. Perchance she should have told Elizabeth of the colossal misapprehension by others of Darcy’s pursuits in France. No doubt, they both would have had a hearty laugh. The laconic Mr. Darcy, a diplomat, indeed.
As often as Darcy had not walked down the plank of any ship, Juliette’s reverie was interrupted when he finally did. It took her a moment to realise it was actually him, and her knees buckled slightly with relief. She watched, her heart pounding in her ears, as he conversed with a uniformed man who thereupon scurried off to do some bidding. He stood there quite alone, but she chose not to go to him, enjoying her vantage of undetected observer. Apparently awaiting the man he sent off, he sat heavily upon a short barrel. For an infinitesimal moment, he looked haggard. Then, as if in rejuvenation, he rubbed his face with his hands and stood, composed.
The contemplation of his countenance was seductive, but Juliette knew he would not be alone long, thus she approached. He was facing away, observing the business upon the pier. She called his name. It was not proper for a lady to speak to a gentleman first; however, neither was it truly proper for a woman to be upon the wharf. When she called his name again louder and he did not yet turn about, it occurred to her that he had seen her and chose not to acknowledge her acquaintance in public.
“Foolish, foolish!” she admonished herself, both mortified and vexed at her own lack of circumspection.
At that moment, looking about the crowd, he did turn in her direction. Clearly, he was taken unawares at seeing her standing there. Without hesitation, he walked toward her, took her hand, and kissed it.
Such was her surprise, she apologised for what she had just been indignant, “Pray, forgive me for approaching you in such an unbefitting manner.”
Flustered for the second time in so many meetings, she looked away.
“Care not,” he assured her.
Thereupon, a look of enquiry overspread his face, and Juliette could see his mind questioning just why she was there. One chance meeting was a novelty, two, an intrigue.
“Were you able to get word to my wife? Do you know if she is well?”
Avoiding the exact wording of his query, for he did not ask her how she delivered his message, she said only, “Yes, she is well. I am here because, of course, she could not…”
He interrupted her, “Forgive me, I do not take your meaning. I understood you to say that she was well.”
“She was well when last I heard…”
“You said she could not come here.” His voice rising, he queried, “Why not, if she is well?”
Suddenly it dawned upon Juliette that Darcy was unaware of his wife’s condition. Not daring to look into his eyes, she dropped hers from his gaze. For she had no notion if she should tell him, or what words to use to say it if she did. She searched for them upon the ground, not yet looking up.
Finally, she said to his boots, “Your wife is heavy with child.”
Only then did she look at him. Darcy stood just as he had, his countenance unbetrayed by emotion. Juliette marvelled that even his reticent sensibilities could maintain an even keel upon hearing news of such substantial consequence. But he did. He stood there as if he had not heard, therefore, she repeated it for good measure, but this time looked at him full.
; “Your wife is heavy with child.”
“With child?” he repeated, apparently dumbfounded.
She nodded her head, and watched his face take a trip of emotions that would merit an atlas. For Juliette, it was an enjoyable revelation of his feelings, undisplayed as he had always kept them. But the last and most pronounced was of such decided apprehension, Juliette immediately recollected that his wife’s only other laying-in had ended with a dead child. She did not know the circumstances, but his expression said this one was perilous as well.
He announced, “Forgive me, I must make haste,” and distractedly turned to leave.
The man he had bid a few minutes before approached leading a carriage and a saddled horse tied to the back. Darcy spoke some instructions to him, pointed to the ship from which he had just disembarked, thereupon untied the horse from the coach. He grabbed the pommel as if to mount the horse, then stopped. He strode back to Juliette.
He said, “Pray, forgive me, for I did not thank you for coming here to tell me.”
Looking at her curiously, as if to query, he then gave a slight shake of his head and said simply, “Thank you.”
Abruptly, he drew her to his chest and kissed her upon the forehead. He mounted his horse and dug his heels quite soundly into its sides, encouraging it into a canter away. But Juliette could not see him do it for the tears in her eyes. She had walked half the distance to her own coach before she whirled and called after him. She had compleatly forgotten to tell him his wife was not at Pemberley, but at Longbourn.
“Darcy…Darcy!”
But he did not hear her.
The road was dry, hence dust curled behind the pounding hooves almost engulfing his horse and Darcy as he rode for Pemberley. Knowing it was reckless to travel with such haste upon an animal to whose stamina he could not attest, he strove on regardless. He knew the road home in his sleep, and thus, exactly where to stop to obtain another when this one inevitably faltered.
Jane Austen's Pride & Prejudice Sequel Bundle: 3 Reader Favorites Page 75